


At the Marriage of Night and Day

by Fyliwion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU Exchangelock 2014, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Anal Sex, Boys Kissing, But actually not - Freeform, Case Fic, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Changelings, Depression, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Fae!Lock - Freeform, Faerie Queen - Freeform, Fiddle Contest, Heavy Petting, Homophobia, In the form of accidental fae enthrallment, M/M, Magic, Magical Realism, Mythology - Freeform, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Small Town Prejudices, Teenlock, Violence, exchangelock, fae, faerie - Freeform, giftfic, magical music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:58:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1952442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>change•ling  [cheynj-ling] :  noun</i><br/>1. a child surreptitiously or unintentionally substituted for another.<br/>2.(in folklore) an ugly, stupid, or strange child left by fairies in place of a pretty, charming child. </p><p>  <i> Mycroft knew the day it happened... </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solitary_Endeavor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Endeavor/gifts).



> Gift piece for the AU Exchangelock. Solitary_Endeavor asked for magical realism and teenlock and a few other things-- so I hope this will do! I am afraid I got a bit off track, and it exploded as well.
> 
> Some inspiration should be given to the book The Moorchild. Which is a wonderful story, and had a profound effect on me as a child. Also thank you to **Eialyne** for being a wonderful beta.

Mycroft knew the day it happened.

He could tell the difference in his baby brother’s cry, or rather from the knowledge that William never cried. Yet here he stood over the infant who proceeded to wail at the top of his lungs.

He’d been ill prior—colicky his mother had said, although quiet in his sickness which he knew worried his Mummy and Daddy. They watched him carefully- and had gone to get a bit of sleep whilst Mycroft sat in the room next door listening to make sure William was alright.

And then the wailing began.

The child _looked_ similar to William- but while the eye might be tricked Mycroft could not. Dark curls were now black and blue, pale skin turned porcelain, blue eyes were now a stormy grey that looked far too intelligent for any child.

 Upon seeing Mycroft the babe’s cry only intensified and caused the boy to pull away.

This thing was not his brother. This infant with a frown and a scream and his too bright complexion was not his soft and mild baby brother who giggled in his arms.

Yet Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t listen— Mycroft was silly and imagining things. It was late and William was sick. A good night’s rest and he’d see that everything would be alright.

Mycroft looked down at the tiny screaming child that looked remarkably like his brother.

“You are not William” he told it as it surveyed him with far too intelligent eyes.

The child quieted for a moment before he continued with his unceasing wailing.

Mycroft vowed at that moment the boy would never be _his_ William.

  


* * *

  


“Sherlock!” 

Mycroft was trying to allow his senses to reconcile with what he was seeing, and what his sensibilities knew to be true. At fourteen he was too old for such flights of fancies, although his collection of folk lore continued to grow extensively.

Yet even with his suspicions and sometime nods to the unknown nothing had prepared him for this.

This brought up questions that Sherlock had raised, and the nagging pull in the back of his mind that reminded him things were not always how they seemed. A promise made years ago and a reason he never called his younger brother by his Christian name.

“Myc! Come look – the bees are collecting for summer!” Sherlock held up a finger where one especially large bumble had landed and flicked its wings to show off.

The bees that Sherlock were playing with could be brushed off. While it was _unusual_ much of what his brother did was deemed not socially appropriate—children did not simply chitter away to bees that landed on their finger tips and preened.

But—there was a basis to brush such an anomaly off. Bees would land on people, and it was not unlikely that his brother hadn’t simply dipped his finger in honey to attract him. Perhaps he’d gotten pollen from the flowers on them and that attracted the creatures. There were a thousand reasons they might land on his hands without ever looking to sting.  

Science did not; however, explain the dancing lights that flitted around Sherlock’s face.  Lights that danced about in the field and tumbled with the bees unlike any firefly would be wont to do. Lights that were too bright and too careful to be something unintelligent or a play of the sun's rays.

“Sherlock-“ his voice was firm and unyielding, “Come inside. Mummy has dinner.”

Sherlock’s face drooped, and immediately the lights seemed to move away from their playing. Three disappeared without a trace and two others darted into the tree. Sherlock glanced about looking for them, and sighed as the bee to flitted its wings and took flight.

“Mycroft you’ve upset them.”

He found it difficult to deal with the mundane idiots that he had long ago drubbed ‘goldfish.’ His brother for all his flights of fancies and oddities was both cunning and intelligent. Somewhere along the way he had decided the boy was kin and whether there was truth in the idea this was still _William_ —he would make do.

Yet his heart was having palpitations. He’d seen such oddities before when it came to his brother, but a year in school and he had come to believe they were nothing but a child’s imagination playing tricks on him. He’d gone to school—returned grown up and realized it was time to put the storybooks down. Such a silly idea that a child would be stolen by something out an Enid Blyton novel… How absurd….

Yet the eyes sees what it must, and  when one eliminates the impossible, whatever remains no matter how improbable must be the truth.

“Mycroft? Aren’t you coming? Mummy’s obviously made cake, or why else would you drag yourself outside to fetch me?” the boy was somehow already inside while Mycroft looked out to the edge of the woods.

Those had been no fireflies….

“Yes Sherlock. Following right behind you.”

 

* * *

  


_change·ling  [cheynj-ling] :  noun_

_1\. a child surreptitiously or unintentionally substituted for another._

_2.(in folklore) an ugly, stupid, or strange child left by fairies in place of a pretty, charming child._

_Changling child?_

-          _Change of temperament for the worse_

-          _Change of looks—darkened hair, lightened skin, sickly pallor_

-          _Usual lights seen straying during the nighttime over the crib._

-          _Fondness for music, and natural skill. Able to hum a tune before speaking._

-          _Dislike of anything iron. Will not hold for long, and cannot bear to sit underneath. Completely irrational. Will try to use another entrance or seat if iron is hung above door- seems to be subconscious._

-          _Unusual silence—when did start speaking spoke full sentences “Could you hand me more honey Mycroft?” – no childish babble, no silly turns of phrases… just a full sentence before the second birthday after apparent mutism._

-          _Dislike of churches—not unusual for the family but a fit every time we stepped into one until old enough to act the part. Apparent physical discomfort.  (See holy water)._

-          _Holy water—increased burning and illness. Apparent discomfort although no actual physical reaction. Difference noticed when placed in blind test._

-          _Seeming capability to communicate with bees and similar creatures._

-          _Fondness for dance- and natural tendency as per music._

-          _Increased oddities upon the house since birth. Things missing for no reason, strange activities and shadows that might unnerve regular humans._

-          _Inability to keep out of forest. Unnerving capabilities in climbing trees, scaling the roof, and similar skills._

-          _More evidence needed….._

 

* * *

  


Sherlock was many things, but not an imbecile. He was quite aware that he was not like other children, nor had he ever been.

Mycroft was bearable given his brother was intelligent. His brother though constantly tried to explain the reason it would not be a terrible thing to act the part. Indulge his playmates, and attempt to portray what they would see as “normal.”

Sherlock, for all his intelligence, could still not grasp _how._

He came to catch certain traits. Little boys should not talk to bees or flowers and other such creatures that adults could hardly understand the brilliance behind. Nor should show off knowledge that scared the adults—things that came naturally from reading and hearing and picking up iotas of conversation. It would seem they did not take well to being talked down by a nine year old.  

Mummy and Daddy were normally understanding and proud—but it worried him when on occasion he would see the fear or worry that would flash through them when he mentioned some bits of information, or a glimmer of insight he had observed from the stain on his teacher’s sleeve.

He hardly understood why—people were silly in that it was there for anyone to see, they were the ones who chose not to _observe._

It was nearing midsummer—hot and sticky for the season and he was free from duties such as _playacting_ with the other children. He’d escaped off to the edge of the woods—finding the trees and the freedom soothing. He preferred the woods when he could escape from the house without Mummy and Daddy catching him.

There was an amber glow when he reached the edge, and the midsummer twilight seemed to play games on the path. Feeling brave and upset from the other children’s retorts and darted further into the woods, a new path seeming to open up beneath him.

There were lights in the trees, and he followed the will-o-whisps deeper, surprised when at last he heard what sounded like music.

Curiosity got the better of him. No doubt it was simply some teenagers having a holiday in the woods for the solstice—some silly nonsense imbued by the trend in books as of late—but Sherlock had grown up in these woods and knew ways to keep quiet enough without even startling a deer.

He kept forward, and going around a bend finally came across the clearing.

And like that—all thoughts of fantasia flew from his head.

In the glade stood a man and woman unlike anything he had ever seen. The man as bright as fire and fair as sunshine, whilst the woman was the shadows that floated off the moon and the pallor of the night all bundled into one—Dark and light standing in the glen.

They stepped through the glen and where the man stepped flowers and grass sprung up behind him, gems seemed to sparkle in the grass and he seemed to have pure light drip from his brow. In the woman’s stead there followed the toadstools and shadows- thistles seemed sprout in her footsteps, and moon flowers and jasmine flowed down her casement.

Sherlock pinched himself to assure he wasn’t dreaming.

Something nagged in his memory as other gathers joined in circle, and began dancing to the musicians on the side. Music too that had a faint familiarity, and had Sherlock aching for a violin and bow that he could try to play them for himself.

Never mind he’d never plucked the instrument before. Mummy played the piano at one point, and Father enjoyed classical but—

The dancing picked up, laughter as they broke into smaller circles and a handful began step dancing to something that Sherlock imagined was a jig.

He was mesmerized.

He knew better than to slip down and join in their merriment, and it left him trapped in the tree as the sun finally set and moonlight poured into the ring. Well past eleven, and no doubt Father would be looking for him soon.

He finally slipped away just passed midnight, following the dancing lights through the paths and back to the home eager to tell his discover. To prove once and for all he wasn’t mad, and that he’d seen the things in the glen and felt _right_ for the first time.

They weren’t idiots. Not like the children at school. Not like the adults who looked at him with fear and distain.

Yet as he saw his mother’s worried face felt a tightening in his stomach and felt for the first time perhaps it would be best not to mention the dancing creatures and the woman with stars in her hair.

  


* * *

  


Few things could do that to Sherlock, very few things since the moment he awoke in a colicky fit so many years past.

Yet as the violin settled under his chin they found the first thing that truly could keep him calm, and seemed to help him keep his thoughts in order and whatever madness that lay behind his eyes abated.

There was a breath of relief that came with the realization Sherlock had an affinity for it.

Unexpected was the inquiry that came after the dreadful night where they had thought to have lost him in the woods. But a few days passed and Sherlock, looking bright eyed and curious h,ad inquired what he might do to begin the violin.

The instrument was bought, a warning given, and a week later the child was making the sweetest music any purveyor of music could ask for.

His parents ignored the way that Mycroft’s face darkened, and a shadow passed over his eyes. Jealousy was terrible—even as the boy buried himself in his rooms with books and refused to talk to his brother for days.

Yet it was obvious their son was a prodigy—and found a new love that kept him entertained for hours during a day.

Violet would find him in the garden, playing near the bee hives and watching them swarm as he would start up some jig that she’d never heard before.

At night, far after he was supposed to be asleep, strains of a lullaby so haunting would drift down to her window and entrap her in dreams of jasmine and moonlight—so vivid and so alive that it sometimes terrified.

Mycroft would storm away whenever the music followed, and some days Violet wondered to herself if her eldest knew something both she and her husband was missing.

Yet she loved her Sherlock dearly, and the music was there to stay.

Even if the strains did haunt her dreams with a well-tempered round infant, whose soft curls were not quite as raven as her son’s.

  


* * *

  


The strand of the song was just slipping away from him when he heard a giggle.

He had been about to stop in frustration until the sound. Months, years of playing in the woods—slipping away at twilight and dawn, or sometimes in the late evening when no one was home to beret him. Yet thus far to no avail.  The lights would come to dance about him, but nothing like that fever dream on Midsummer.

And now… a giggle.

The closest home belonged to an older couple. No young relatives… so they were the impossible culprits. They were too far from town to be much sense to go for a trip to the woods—although he supposed it would be possible.

No. Best to keep playing.

The melody tried to slip away again and he followed it back—lifting it up into a dance. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of two women dancing- not quite women—too slender and too bright. One was wearing what looked like a thin green shift that could almost be made of cobwebs—the second had a garment decorated with flower blossoms and soft linen and both so sheer it would make most men blush.

The lights shifted to dance around them, and he picked up the song- suddenly the missing strains playing with ease off his fingers as he laughed out loud, throwing himself further into the music.

It twisted around them, a living thing as it fell from his fingertips. He feared he could not have stopped had he wished it, the way that the strings seemed to play themselves and he could visibly see the music.

It was a man this time, wearing nothing but tight fitting trousers who slipped out from behind a tree to join the circle. He twisted the women around in some formless dance, flirting and catching them with long red curls and a musical laugh.

 Sherlock watched from the corner of his eye as he lifted the one in green, almost in flight, and brought her back down without bending so much as a blade of grass as she landed.

Hours or days could have passed when he finally lowered his violin, his dancers giggling and out of breath as they lay themselves upon the grass and applauded happily.

“You play well for a mortal” said the one in flowers. Her long blond hairs pooled about her like a cloak. Sharply pointed ears peeked out from underneath, and her eyes could best be described as a deep lavender. Sherlock supposed abstractedly some would call her beautiful, and even he found his cheeks burning under her praise. “Far too well if I should say! Play again for us mortal!”

The girl in green had slipped up behind him sticking a finger in his ear, which caused him to jerk. She was as dark as her sister was light, with raven hair that fell just short of her ears. “Are we certain he’s a mortal? Too pretty really.”

The man laughed and reached up to grab the one in green, dragging her down onto his lap, “Mmm leave the lad Fiona. A pretty face does not make the boy _Sidhe_.”

Funny though. Sherlock could feel the man’s eyes flicker over his face, and for a moment Sherlock felt his breath taken away and fear leap up in his chest.

“Go on then,“ said the man this time catching his gaze entirely this time. There was an amused twist to his lip, and something that made Sherlock’s cheeks redden even more. “Play us another _mortal_.”

Sherlock thought to argue. Something in the man’s voice was compelling and he felt distaste at the idea they wished to _force_ him to play. Here had been coming constantly and never before had he caught so much as a glimmer of the fey other than his companions in the whisps.

Yet here were three acting as though they had been the ones to bring him out to play, when it had been he who invited them in the clearing in the first place.  It irked him, caused words in a language he had never learned to try to bubble to his lips, and a fire shine in his eyes that for a moment caused a flicker of confusion in his audience.

Yet something in their gazes stopped his words, something that warned if he spoke now he might never have the chance again.

And Sherlock would do anything to see the dark woman and her consort and their dancing rings once more, so it was that instead he lifted up his violin once more in song.

A song that would start a summer filled with cobwebs and gossamer. A song that would bring forth half remembered afternoons in the woods, and his first tryst among late summer forget-me-nots. A summer that he would hold even when magic seemed like a far flung thought, and he would do anything, _anything,_ to forget what he was.

A summer filled with enchantment.

Then came Eton.


	2. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was difficult, living in such close quarters, and even in a city filled with iron it was impossible to be on guard every moment of every day. Oddities slipped in and excuses only went so far. 
> 
> The cracks start to emerge, and it's all Sherlock can do to keep them from shattering  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid due to conflicts of life and business this chapter took substantially longer than I anticipated. Given the length of the rest of this monster I have expanded it into four parts. I can assure you part three is currently being edited; however, so it should not take an excruciatingly long time. 
> 
> Thank you again to my lovely beta **Eialyne**! Who puts up with my horrific grammar.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

A saucer of milk.

There was one at the threshold and one on her window ledge, both refreshed every morning and evening drizzled in a teaspoon of honey.

At first John had waved it off as a gift for the neighborhood cats, but an implication that perhaps Mrs. Hudson would like one of her own was met by a vehement reply concerning her allergies.

Not cats then.

There was another option of course. John remembered his Nan doing the same, when he and Harry were little and packed in a car to the Highlands to visit her. Her small cottage that smelled strongly of herbs and wax, but there was always warm tea on the table and a tray of biscuits set out for the children.

“ _Morning and Night,” said she. “Morning and Night a saucer to please the wee ones. I have never seen a reason not to appease the, even if most of their kind have long forsook this world for the next. No need for extra trouble where it’s not wanted.”_

His mother would tut, and tell the woman it was no place for such fairy stories in children’s lives these days. Even if the old tales were true, how could the fae live surrounded by cities made entirely of materials they hated? Why stay when their forests were gone, and their mounds derelict?

 _“Superstitious nonsense,”_ his mother would say on the ride home. _“I love her dearly, but her mind runs away with things. Pay her no mind children.”_

John took care as he asked his landlady about them. Sherlock never made a comment when he tried to bring the subject up to him, and no one else had bothered to notice. He might have let it go entirely, but his curiosity had bested him.

John caught her one morning just as she set it out.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

She looked only mildly started, more so by his sudden appearance rather than the odd saucer she held in her hands. She lit up as she saw him with her eyes flickering over John’s face, “Now don’t you know better than to startle my old bones like that? My poor heart can’t take you two constantly sneaking up on me. Try to make a bit more noise when you come in won’t you?”

She set the saucer down and then stood up brushing off her skirt, “I’ll make tea. It’s been some time since I’ve seen you up this early and lingering. Usually you’ve already gone off to work or Sherlock’s spirited you away to one those dreadful cases of his. Not proper. ” She began busying herself with a kettle and pulling down the tea.

 “Oh no need Mrs. Hudson! I was just-“

“John,” there was no room in her voice for argument.

There was a companionable silence as she started the water, and he glanced back at the saucer on the ledge, “Mrs. Hudson, I had rather thought you weren’t fond of cats.” There was a flash of pride that went through the man. It was, after all, as good excuse as any, and on how many an occasion had Sherlock sought to point out people were more likely to correct a falsehood offer up a truth.

She bustled about the kitchen setting out a platter of biscuits, never mind the early hour. She hummed to herself and gave him a sidelong glance, “Oh that’s not for the cats dear.”

“No?”

She turned, her eyes sharp as she looked at him with a bit of a knowing smile, “Why John Watson, did you come down simply to catch an old lady in the act of her silly habits? Whatever would your mother say?”

_“Silly superstitious nonsense”_

The words flit through his head as he thought them. Never mind he’d only seen Mrs. Hudson do it in the last year or so, or that she rarely had “silly” habits.

She settled the tea in front of him and placed her hands on her hips “Nothing a young man like you needs to bother yourself with. I’ve still got my head on straight; it’s simply a bit of old nonsense. Sometimes it’s best not to ask love.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock felt when the sprites moved in.

It was the eyes first, watching and waiting from the nooks around him. There was a glimpse of a worn brown face, a tuff of sun-white hair, a snippet of a red cap being pulled through a hole that was gone the instant he truly wished to _look_.

It was hardly the first time they’d followed him.

It was also bothersome to attempt to send them away. It was half the reason they inevitably moved into his residence. Other households were so overwhelmed with technology and iron that they found little solace in the confines. London was a plague among the _Fae_ , and the small Folk that had always been there would remain undaunted, yet they would seek out the few refuges allowed them.

Sherlock’s dwellings would be one of them.

He could hang the horseshoes to be rid of them (a simple metal bar would do just as well, but old beliefs often times held the most sway). There were poultices and herbs that would keep them at bay, or a sprig of rowan and St. John’s Wart.  He could set warnings to make them leave, or it was entirely possibly a sheer strength of will, given his own limited ability (as untrained and unused as it was).

He could.

But iron hurt and Sherlock would not be bothered to walk under it each day. Rowan, St. John’s Wart, and Vermillion all made him sneeze and did little for his health. Anything else he sought to do would have some undue effect on him as well, and Sherlock saw no reason to make his own life wrought with irritants to be rid a few annoying free-loaders.

The Folk knew. The Folk placed their bets on it, and until the trouble surmounted to a point he grew angry they were hardly any more bothersome than a mouse.

They knew better to steal from _him_ after all.

And if it was John’s keys that were mislaid, John’s jumper that unwound, John’s socks that somehow ended up mismatched, or there was a sudden increase in their demand for milk?

Well then little had changed at 221 B.

 

* * *

 

John considered at first that it might be drugs.

But the look that Sherlock shot him with was so piercing, and the tone in which he denied it was so biting John could not believe it was so. There was a sort of yearning in the man’s voice that was an assurance to John that the man had not imbibed, or else the honest want in Sherlock’s voice would never have been so clear.

If not drugs, John was not certain what then.

The only certainty he had at all was the fact Sherlock was not ill.

For all his complaining and moods, the detective very rarely came down ill. Injuries were constant but quickly recovered from. He was prone to his bouts of melancholy, but that was an illness of the mind not the body. John had never caught him with a fever or even something like the common cold that would lay him anyone else for a week at a time.

Yet there was an endless miasma that seemed to flutter around them in the flat, impenetrable and sickening none the less. 

As the weather changed, and London was beset with thick clouds and an everlasting greyness Sherlock would wither. There were no cases, no intellectual problems, and the body parts John procured from Molly did little to cheer the man as he grew progressively more listless.

Another individual would have brushed it off, even Lestrade thought nothing as John murmured his worries. Sherlock was an odd one, as they both knew, and this was just another aspect in the never ending struggle of living with the detective.

Except for the morning that John stepped into the sitting room, sleep still in his eyes, and the sun not yet risen, when he failed to recognize his flatmate.

Or just nearly. 

It took too long, too many seconds as he stared at the figure draped in the chaise. He blinked twice, barely connecting the figure that sat hidden with the body that was the man he counted as his closest friend.

 Sherlock hands seemed longer, skin paler and hair too dark and lank for anything that was kept normally. When the detective turned his eyes on him, John felt his breath stolen as violet eyes met his. They glinted like Alexandrite, and John could not have told a person their color with a gun pointed to his head.

There was a shiver of fear, even as Sherlock held his gaze and the man that normally sat in the chair flickered back to place. His cheekbones were still too pronounced, his skin too pale, but his eyes were back to an unnatural shade of sapphire and his hair looked simply dark rather than the shade of the night sky.

When he returned to his room his sleep was uneasy, filled with the creatures of stories.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Is he still ill? The poor dear.”

The weather had stayed abysmal through winter and on through late spring. John could hardly remember the last time the sun had come out.  The entire city groaned with the strain beset upon it, but the weight of it fell on Sherlock worst of all. Spring had been set aside for endless clouds and fog, that hung over them all and made even the criminals stay in hiding.

“Not from anything I can seem to fix,” John didn’t look up, worry creased between his brows as Mrs. Hudson looked on. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, but it doesn’t even appear to be his normal bouts of boredom. I’d laugh and say he needs sunlight, but goodness knows we could all use that by now.”

She patted his shoulder, “It affects some more than others.”

“Sherlock doesn’t even like nature.”

She hummed to herself as she moved about the kitchen finding something to busy herself with. Pouring two mugs of tea, she took out a stopper of honey and poured a good helping into the one cup. She set the container onto the tray before handing it to John, “Now give the second to that poor young man of yours and see if that brings him around. Sometimes a bit of something sweet is all we need.”

The golden syrup swirled in the cup, shimmering over the brim before sinking to the bottom the steaming liquid. “Honey?” There was a note of disbelief in his voice, “Mrs. Hudson I don’t think-“

“Hush dear and do as I say.”

He tried not to look at the cup in disgust, but took them up to the sitting room and set down the mug for the other man. It would be Mrs. Hudson’s head if Sherlock gagged on the stuff. The detective was staring at the ceiling catatonic, barely glancing when John entered the room.

It was several minutes before a hand emerged from the nest of blankets and Sherlock took a small sip.

One followed another, and then a third. He’d gotten through half the cup, and his eyes cleared as he looked at John sharply.

“Honey?”

“Mrs. Hudson’s idea,” John had forgotten his own cup as he watched Sherlock in disbelief. Honey? Sherlock had a bit of a sweet tooth it was true, but he’d offered the man any number of of sugary concoctions without receiving so much as a glance.

Yet now the color returned to his face, and the swirling eyes turned to something that was their usual beryl shade. Lighter perhaps, but recognizably Sherlock's. 

“Ah. Of course,” a thoughtful look passed Sherlock’s face as he took another sip. He glanced at John again, “Perhaps… I think I shall try it in some chamomile later, provided you still keep a tin?”

Sherlock normally preferred coffee over tea, and John had never seen him to drink an herbal blend. Especially a relaxer compared to a stimulant. However, the look of radiant calm would have sent John all over London in search of a tin if he was out.

“I do.”

“Excellent. Be a good man and put another pot on will you?”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been long time since anyone noticed Sherlock’s oddity as something more than it was. There was always a danger with anyone at such close quarters (he learned that too well at Eton), but nowadays it was never anything so noticeable that a flatmate should notice.

It was a different age, and a different city. Few people had the knowledge or thought that the Folk might exist. There was little danger in thoughts of magic and glamour. Even Sherlock had never found anything useful in his talents, a penchant for music and a bit more skill in some areas than most. He was clever, too clever, but there were thousands of clever people in the world and he was just another idiosyncrasy left at the fringe.

Still, no one had stayed long, and even after John Watson killed a man for him he had never expected their tenure to last more than a month or two.

 It was beneficial that Mrs. Hudson knew more than she let on. Sherlock suspected that in another age she might have been a hedgewitch, or some other antiqued term. As it was, he knew she’d seen something the moment she first accepted help from him. She was always careful with her hospitality, and she distracted the brownies so they stayed out of his and John’s way.

He’d never seen her _do_ anything. He rather supposed she must if she managed to charm the House Folk. He only tried to ask her once and she brushed him off, mentioned her mother’s mother, and murmured _“silly superstitions.”_

She had never inquired about his peculiarities.

Most remarkable was her talent at keeping John distracted when the city became too much for Sherlock to retain appearances.

Even so, his temper could be vile, and he had not lied when he said he would go for days without talking at a time. He forgot himself in his experiments, in his music, or in a case. He would bolt off without a thought for another person, and let it wrap him up in the one-mindedness that only the Fae knew.

And never would he let his mind drift to other things, other thoughts and emotions that he’d kept buried since before university. The Fae were passionate at their best, and possessive to the point of manipulation when things grew out of hand. John did not need the attention that would be gained from that, presuming the man was interested at all.

And Sherlock was never certain how much free will would be involved for either parties if that box were to be opened.

So he kept them shut, and took care to make sure that wall at least never broke through. He was careful to keep his other glamors in check, and relied that on any other occasion Mrs. Hudson might find a way to keep his roommate from looking too closely.

But he saw the glances that John threw at him on occasion, or a near question of something that Sherlock had done or failed to do that most mortals would catch before.

High-functioning sociopath only went so far when it was too obvious you cared.

 

* * *

 

 

Sleep was a distant memory. There was little hope it would come any time soon, and Sherlock's mind was racing too fast to consider working on anything to ease the passing.

It was mid-spring, and the restlessness was always the worst come the Equinox. There were other ways to pass the time, but a seven percent solution or powder would only bring the wrath of John with no easy explanation for why it had been so necessary.

The violin sat by the window, with the moonlight playing off the ashy wood. It was something, a balm of sort, and sat like a siren that called to him across the room.

 He stood up to fetch the instrument, and a moment later was running his fingers over the carefully crafted wood. He brushed it as another might a lover, allowing himself the luxury of feeling the strings, and the sound as they brushed up against his nubs. There was always an element of danger when he played, a thrill that this time he might lose control of the tune and let something else slip through the cracks he fought so carefully to hide.

Especially on nights like these.

The bow slipped across the strings and he heard the melody before he played. It had been long years since he’d let the tune slip through into this world, but so close to the Equinox like called like.  The reel sang through his blood, filling him with energy as it picked up, and flew through the silent building on the wings of the night.

Moonlight danced through the window, and seemed to stray into the room like a captive audience.  From the shadows he saw glints of eyes peering out from behind the walls, more eyes than he had accounted for in such a small dwelling.

The House Folk had no power to turn down such a tune, and they were drawn like moths to a candle flame. Each one risking to be burned simply to watch him play the tunes from the _Seelie Court_ , tunes that some may never have heard before at all.

It gave him power, a rush that was far more potent than any drug. The seven percent solution would have been safer, something that Mycroft had never understood. Anything was safer than the power that Sherlock wielded that moment over the house.

Sherlock paid no mind to the small ones that watched, never glanced to the lights that filled their windows and flew from Mrs. Hudson’s small garden. One of the High Ones could stroll into his room, and at that moment he would do nothing but smirk, and perhaps be inclined to take them to bed while the song was still singing through their blood, and the reel playing through the empty house.  

One turned to two and the night wore on without any notion of time or numbers. It was freeing; releasing the careful masks he’d built for himself over the years. The glamors dropped, the instrument freed from any of the prior inhibitions he had taken with his music.

The melody flew around him, and for a swift moment he felt a tremor of fear flicker over his chest. An old thought, an old fear that still hung over him from childhood.

But he was kilometers from the moors and fields—deep in the heart of London and barred by layers of iron and humanity. The stench lay everywhere, and even at the Equinox (especially at the Equinox) there was no reason for them to interrupted their revels and find his reels instead.

As safe as a man could be who trespassed on the faerie tunes on the night of the Equinox.

He was too caught in the music to hear the steps padding down the stairs. He didn’t see the man stopping at the bottom to stare at Sherlock with unseeing eyes. He never looked at the awe and wonder that flickered over the mortal face.

Mycroft had once said Sherlock never looked wilder than when he began playing the fae tunes. His brother had warned him once not to play them in school or recitals as a careful precaution.

Sherlock had seen his reflection in his brother’s eyes: His figure too gaunt, fingers too long, eyes to bright, and hair spilling around him like a raven’s wings after a storm. His blood was racing and there was an edge of the wild that touched his cheeks keeping them flushed even as the rest of him was snow white.

Time spent away from the forest and moors had repressed it, but now when Sherlock did stop long enough to see himself in John’s eyes, his bow faltered.

The image in his brother’s eyes might have been tamed to the man he saw now.

“Sherlock?”

John’s voice was removed, distant, and although it seemed as though he was trying to shake off the reverie. He looked around uncertain where he was with Sherlock still frozen in the midst of his playing.

The creatures froze, the lights shifting in the window to a more natural gleam that blended in with the cities late night glimmers. The Folk should have fled, would have at another time and place, but here and now stood trapped as they watched him.

“I…” There was a distinct note of surprise in the man’s voice but his eyes had yet to refocus. “Please. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Keep playing. I must still be half asleep.” The last part was barely a mumble, a discourse of confusion ringing through John’s voice.

Sherlock could feel the magic still vibrating in the air. _Magic_. There was no other word for whatever hung about the doctor like a thick shroud. Magic had brought him down, magic hung over him, magic made the man’s cheeks flushed and pulse rushing as he looked at Sherlock like he might a god.

 Sherlock nearly spoke to break the spell, but instead nodded and lifted his bow once more. This time the sound was softer, and carefully he brought the music to a level that was controllable. His focus stayed on the other man, and the music fell from that drive. An easy sound that couldn’t be stopped from his fingers.

John took a seat, the magic slowly falling off him, and his eyes grew sharper. The music cut through whatever faerie spell had him in his grips earlier. Regret filled his chest, but even as his fingers trembled to bring back the passionate reels and pull John down to his grips, he knew that no good would come from such a thing. Just another fancy, and without the excuse of alcohol to brush it away from John’s mind.

So Sherlock continued to play, and eventually the Doctor drifted off. His fingers stopped once the sun drifted up over the window, playing against the horizon and waiting as the tops of the buildings turned a soft grey.

He set down the instrument, fingers still warm from their work, and brushed them gently over the doctor’s cheek. The man made no signs of stirring, and after a moment Sherlock drew the throw to lie on top of him, maneuvering him so his shoulder would ache less when he awoke.

No sign of waking as he moved him.

No sign of consciousness whether through exhaustion or some left over magic from the music.

Sherlock scowled as he looked him over, a reminder etched forever in the back of his mind, that whatever he might think himself to be?

He was not.

 

* * *

 

  

Once the sun was high in the sky, after John had left hours before for work, Mrs. Hudson came up with a plate of tea and biscuits.

Her hand dropped to Sherlock's shoulder and she tutted softly to the detective, “Sherlock. That really was lovely last night…” her voice was careful, like she was treading on glass.

She dropped a kiss to the top of his curls, “…But do be careful love. Magic is heady thing.”

 


	3. Act III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She reminded him of one of his occasional visitors as a child, with her soft silver hair and violet eyes, her long fingers that hung limp nearly brushing the floor, and a type of agelessness regular humans never had. Her complexion said she was initially from outside London, but she’d since hewn out a life for herself buried in the heart of the city. He wondered if for the same reason he had._
> 
>  
> 
> _Regardless, if by coincidence or design, the woman was now dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for Halloween, even if trying to write cases gives me hives. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your lovely comments—I mean to respond but life’s run away with me these past few months and it’s suddenly all I can do to get to updates.

* * *

 

It would be worse than most, Lestrade’s voice on the other end of the phone told him that, _“I know. I know. You’ll tell me it’s nothing you haven’t seen before, but goddammit Sherlock this one’s bad…”_

The air hung with a thick layer of fog, and a threat of rain that hung from the dark clouds above them.

The warehouse in Limehouse was old, and before they even removed themselves from the cab Sherlock could smell the stench of the old smelting factory that had existed over fifty years ago.

He forced himself to flex his fingers, not allow the horrid stench to crawl under his skin, but from the corner of his eye he saw John pass him a worried look. Sherlock had given something away in his demeanor, the close presence to the building making it harder to focus the necessary energy.

“Sherlock?”

“It’s nothing.” It was the truth, or that’s what he told himself as he slid out of the cab without a second thought. He stepped through the metal frame of the door, ignoring the way his hair stood on end, and the sudden ache that ran through his bones.

The moment he stepped inside Lestrade was at his arm. The detective’s lips were close, and his face was pale. Sherlock took note of a slight trace of blood on his show, which meant the scene would be especially morbid. It took something unusual to shake up the Inspector.

 Lestrade began briefing before Sherlock had a chance to speak his thoughts, “It appears to be some sort of ritual. Given the surplus of blood on the scene and the peculiarities some thought Satanic. I’m not sure though I admit it fits. Some of the things done-“ A shadow crossed over the Detective Inspector’s face, as a nearly imperceptible shudder ran through him, “There’s a woman. We’re thinking some sort of sacrifice given her appearance and the get up the monsters put her in, but fuck it’s…”

Very bad then, if Lestrade was already cursing.

But he had no time to deal with something as bothersome as emotions, especially when every one of his senses fought the building. There was something inherently wrong, and Sherlock could feel it in his bones. There was something there, on the periphery that tried to spin into shape and made his head ache. All his instincts begged him to run, but the case was too fascinating and he had his suspicions concerning the ‘ritual.’

It made sense the moment he stood in the room.  

Feverfew, Hawthorne, Rowan, Mistletoe and St. John’s Wart- all scattered throughout and some of the twigs set burning. Vermillion and Verbena—the list went on and it was all he could do not to bring his hand to his face to stop from gagging on the stench, even with his best effort’s he knees shook.

In the center there was a circle of salt and a bed of iron and elder, a woman spread out to the four directions with her wrists and ankles in silver chains.

Her face was untouched- slim and slight with clouds of soft silver hair that fell around her in waves. Her violet eyes were open and unseeing. She was still staring up at the ceiling, with anguish painted across her face.

It was the only part of her left untouched.

The gown she was wearing was a preposterous mockery of anything that might be used for such an event. The dress was pale white cotton with long scalloped sleeves, silver trim, and a silver belt about her hips. Another generic costume that might have been bought anywhere in the city.

He suspected the idea was to add to her “ethereal beauty,” though the gown did little justice to the creature it clothed. If anything it diminished her qualities, a pale shadow of the actual beauty that lay inside, though her elfin features might have been construed as odd rather than modelesque.

The gown was ruined now, just as she had been. When they had taken to butchering her they had sliced through the fabric rather than remove it.

The cuts were careful and precise, the dress cut open along her torso just as the incisions had been made to split open her rib cage and cut into her torso as a person might an autopsy. It was only a few jagged edges at the start of the incision that gave a tell-tale sign she had been alive when they began.

 Her rib cage had been pried apart so the organs visible for anyone to see. She was a perfect model of the inner cavities of humans excluding the vacant hole where her heart should have been.

The blood had formed rivlets around her, although there was not as much as there should have been. Closer examination and it was possible to see her wrists had been sliced and drained of blood.

“Bloody hell,” John had come up behind him.

“Not satanic” he forced himself to cross the circle.

It was fascinating. Whoever the individuals were had known exactly what they were doing, and to whom yet there methods were compliantly rampant with various inconsistencies. Silver did little against the fae, sometimes even an amplifier to their power, but it would not have added any level of strength to the containment of her.

The herbs, the burning wood, some of them had some aspects that sickened a fae, but there was just as much that was nothing but an old wives tale. St. John’s Wart made him ill, but the mistletoe actually eased some of the effects. The culprit had simply taken every inch of lore and threw it into a room.

Unnecessary but effective.

“What? But-“the detective could never understand why Lestrade felt the need to interrupt his thoughts. He reached over and took out the lockpicks from his pocket. Tragic for the women, whoever she had been, but more striking were the fae traits that told him she had more than a little _Sidhe_ blood running through her veins.

She reminded him of one of his occasional visitors as a child, with her soft silver hair and violet eyes, her long fingers that hung limp nearly brushing the floor, and a type of agelessness regular humans never had. Her complexion said she was initially from outside London, but she’d since hewn out a life for herself buried in the heart of the city. He wondered if for the same reason he had.

A shame she hadn’t done better at hiding it.

“Druidic” Sherlock waved his free hand over the scenes. “No pentagons, no incantations in ancient Latin, no cups filled with blood and set throughout the room in some sacrificial summoning? The is nothing here that lends itself to a biblical based organization. On the contrary, the sprayed blood implies it would not have mattered if some was lost. She is missing her heart, yet no lasting evidence in the room. The items surrounding us are taken from Celtic lore, nothing outside our island, which would tell you something else is going on. No, the woman was harvested.” The cuffs finally unlocked under his administrations. Destroying evidence, perhaps, but whoever the fae girl was she deserved better in death.

“Druidic?”

Sherlock only then realized his concentration was becoming compromised. The smell burned his nostrils and his throat. He felt light headed, and the iron made his skin itch just as the remnants seemed to crawl underneath and burn him.

And now his audience still leveled him with these unseeing eyes, still unable to rationalize his deductions even when so eloquently spelled out.

“Look around you!  Hawthorne and Rowan? Verbenas alight? We’re covered in iron dust, and yet they still had iron crosses set on all four sides. Silver chains unnecessary, but they went through all the loops they considered important. This isn’t a satanic ritual, this is far far different from any heavy handed attempt at black magic.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, “Well?”

“The murderers thought they caught themselves a faerie.”

Not an untruth. Sherlock was fighting not to tremble, and he wondered with some amazement if he could have lied at all at the moment. Funny how these things came at the most inopportune times.

“Faerie?” The detective refused to turn as he heard the disbelief in Lestrade’s voice. “ _Faerie?!_ Dear God the woman’s beautiful but what would-“

“Beautiful? Perhaps. But not in the typical fashion that beauty is identified by society. Pointed chin, elfin features, violet eyes and nearly silver hair. They must have been following her for some time.”

Lestrade and John looked to him with disbelief.

“Oh please, I’m not implying she is. I am providing you the murder’s motive. They sought themselves a faerie, perhaps for immorality, perhaps as just a cure for an incurable illness, or maybe they thought she was an ingredient for a philosopher’s stone. I do not have the data to tell you which, but I can say they drained her of her blood and took her heart, both of which I suspect were not simply thrown away.”

He folded the girls’ arms and looked to them, “But I assure if this is the first, it will not be the-“

His vision swam. The iron’s faint itch had turned to a sharp burn, and the Hawthorne caused his senses to ache. The moment he touched her _something_ flooded through his body. He felt his throat asphyxiate and even the silver seemed to burn his hands. Something… something that had painted on the chains? Perhaps her skin as well--

He fell.

“Sherlock!”

John ran to the man as he saw him tumble to the ground. What he had been doing with the woman was beyond him, but it now stood null and void once the detective hit the ground.

“Get the EMT’s Lestrade!”

Sherlock’s breath was faint, and his pulse was slow, painstakingly so as he checked it. Perhaps there had been poison on the chains? Something left on the woman.

Lestrade was looking in shock, “Do you think-“

“I haven’t the slightest, but we need to get him out of these horrid herbs and into fresh air.”

Sherlock’s skin had lost all sense of color. At the moment, he seemed as pale as the dead woman he had been touching a moment before, and his features became overly vivid. His chin more pointed his fingers unusually long. The detective’s black curls lay around him in a dark halo, lank and black that had seemed to lose their sheen. It was a subtle change, most might not notice, but for John who had been living with the detective they were there. The more pronounced cheek bones, the hallow face, and the slender hands that had gone twig like.

It was a relief to leave the stifling room, and see the man’s chest take deep inhalations the moment they escaped its confines.

Sherlock’s eyelids flickered after a moment, and he looked at John with a certain amount of confusion, “What- where-“

“You… fainted.” It might have been funny if it hadn’t worried John so much. His was still gone and his eyes were unnaturally bright.

“Fainted-“he made a face and rubbed his wrist. “I…. yes. Perhaps the rowan, I always had a bit of sensitivity, made it rather horrid at Beltane living in the north as we did.”

The joke fell flat, John too taken aback that a man who could barely remember his own birthday would remember a pagan holiday from centuries before.

“Have them remove the body and I will exam it once it had been delivered to Barts. The woman is originally from the north, but had relocated to London for some time now. I suspect she was chosen solely for her body type. Her silver hair and violet eyes are unusual and frequently have a tendency to be related to the mythical. There is more than once person at work here. I suspect it is the primary leader whose health will be failing, or perhaps someone close to him. They believe the girl’s body had magical purposes, and I suspect for healing.”

He moved, swiftly, his breathing easy now, and John began to think he’d been seeing things earlier. The man was still pale, but his hair was simply dark and his eyes their normal stormy blue.

Just his imagination, too much smoke and shadow, surely that was all.

* * *

“Fairies.”

It had been obviously coming. Inevitably it did, although it had been sometime since Sherlock had made any impression he had such knowledge of such things.

“Problem?”

John set down the tea he’d been holding to look over at the detective. His foot was tapping, and his eyes flickered over the other man. “Well admittedly it’s a bit… odd. I’d have thought you’d delete it. I mean would’ve thought something so fanciful would have gone the way of the universe and U2.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Mycroft still has quite a collection. It was a hobby as a child, and I picked it up as well. Given the extensiveness of the studies, and years spent reading _nothing_ but Fairy Stories, it would be impossible to delete them in their entirety. Furthermore, we had a house out in the country, and you would have been familiar with many of the same superstitions. Bonfire night, horseshoes on the barns, rowan on the doorsill and such matters. Given the natural elements obvious in the room, and the combination of the location- it made more sense for it to be related to faeries rather than something as sinister as satanic worship. “

“More sinister? Hell Sherlock the woman was cut open and gutted!” The tea splashed as John set the cup down with a hard thunk. Sherlock looked up from the map he’d been studying prior.

He admits the murder had shaken him as well, but it had dual purposes in his investigation. He wondered how the victim had been by found by her murderers. It was possible that the truth in their capture had been a coincidence, but Sherlock could not believe it. It worried him.

Perhaps it was he that was wrong, and she had not been Fae at all. An overreaction wrought on by the effects of the room.

Except the body had shown signs of distress from the items, there was slight burning from the iron and irritation from whatever oil had been rubbed over the silver cuffs. Her throat had been close from the smoke, and the areas that were cut open had marks from more than just the slicing. Whatever it had been irritated the skin as well.

It was worrisome that they had caught a true fae in London, although it might make it easier to draw them out.

Regardless of what Mycroft might think, Sherlock took careful precautions to ensure he was caught as too abnormal. His focus and energy was centered in a way that the little things visible and especially separate might be seen as a peculiarity but not something removed.

Once he dropped the energy, it was a near immediate difference.

_Freak._

_Demon._

_Changeling._

_Fairy._

It would take very little. His own attributes lent themselves to something unnatural, and a few quick questions might raise old superstitions that few city folk would ever deign to accept. He would have the benefit he could withstand metal and rowan. Even with the fainting episode, he could manage if necessary, and thus far he had managed to narrow down the culprits to two major areas within London.

Universities. It was be a professor and a handful of students, likely an occult group, where the professor had the knowledge and the students were responsible for the dramatics such as the idiotic white dress.

“Sherlock are you listening to me?”

Of course he wasn’t.

“John, we need to go to school.”

 

* * *

 

Will-o-wisps.

Of course, it was a sensible trick given the time of year. Make-shift wisps. He felt a sense of mortification he had fallen for them at all, but then he did admire the irony in such a simplistic trick. A fae trick against a fae, how droll.

The bindings were silver again, though they were missing the slick oil that had coated the ones on the woman. He had a head wound that dripped blood, the most problematic part of the situation, and given his current location appeared to be in a basement of the Anthropological Studies building.

Sherlock wondered if he’d be able to sneak out one of the Homo Erectus skulls that were stationed on the shelf across from him. Presuming of course John managed to find him before they tried to turn him into some form of youth potion.

The steps were heavy and distinctly not John’s when they entered into the room. He blinked against the sudden onslaught of light and eyes flickered over the older man who entered. Mid-sixties, widower, suffering from a long form of cancer and given eight months to live. Chemo taking poorly and school inquiring about his retirement. No children.

“It didn’t work” he said drily. “Surely you couldn’t have thought it would.” Sherlock spoke looking at the other man taking in the details.

The man’s laugh was brittle and harsh. It cut through the air and shook, “I would try the Holy Grail if I thought I could find it,” his accent was heavy. Perhaps Scottish originally, or at least somewhere in the North Country.

“Ah wrong part of the world. You’ll need to travel to Africa to look for that,” he said trying to keep his voice bored. “Although I think that’s far more likely than cutting up people you believe to have fairy blood and proceeding to eat them alive. It doesn’t appear the last one had much effect.”

The man chuckled, “Really? Well I suppose you didn’t see me before.”

Which was the missing link. Of course, the weight gain on old clothes wouldn’t show or have the other tell-tale signs Sherlock was looking for. He still looked ill, but Sherlock hadn’t seen him prior and the gleam in the man’s eyes told him that some sort of placebo seemed to make the man think the girl had a difference. Unless she had, but Sherlock refused to dwell on that possibility.

How wretched.

“And what good do you think I’ll do?” Sherlock asked clinking his chains, “All you’ve managed is to entrap yourself a detective. You’ll have the Detective Inspector down upon you within days, and I doubt my blood will be of much use for you.”

Except there was a way the man walked, tilted his head and sharp eyes looking at him. The way he looked almost past Sherlock, and he felt like a child again whose face was too long and hair too dark.

“Now Mr. Holmes, we both know that isn’t quite true.”

Sherlock didn’t answer but rolled his eyes, “Dramatics. How absurd. Now you’ll go on about all the signs you feel tells you I’m some sort of Fae creature. How lovely. I assure you that while I’ve been singled out for being different, I was happily baptized, and even you must have noticed the iron doesn’t affect me. She showed obvious signs of physical distress, a certain amount of reddening and irritant from her situation that I don’t have.”

“We’ll have to take that chance, won’t we Mr. Holmes? As for your friend the Detective Inspector? By all means, he’ll find his culprits. Three students interested in the occult who committed a sacrifice and then took poison themselves to seek the doors to Avalon.”  

He chuckled darkly, “Rather poetic I thought.”

Well that would cause problems, “Except of course I’ve told them they’re looking for a group of students led by their professor, which would mean they’ll still be looking for a fourth person.”

“And I’ll be out of the country and on my way to Russia or South America where I can be certain they can’t detain me.”

Sherlock’s shoulders rolled, “How disgusting. Especially as you have to be aware my blood will hardly do more than the girls’. Without the supply you’ll still be dead within a year, perhaps two if you’re lucky.”

“And less if I let you live; especially given that the time would be spent in prison.”

He lit a flame letting the smoke waft through the room, “No. My students are preparing the arrangements as we speak, and we’ll be coming to fetch you shortly Mr. Holmes. It’s been a pleasure, but I think we’re done for the moment.”

His steps were heading back up and the smoke was making Sherlock light headed. It was thick, from an oil _(the same type as the cuffs?)_ that coated the sprigs of rowan and verbena. He could feel it swimming and tightness in his chest.

“Faerie?” Sherlock’s questioned echoed in the room as the man nearly reached for the door.

The man laughed, “Silly isn’t it? But then I made it my studies through years and could never _prove_ their existence, no matter that I’d seen them as a child. The forests in the North are filled with things that the city folk forget. Keys go missing, children sick, strange things that we simply brush off as an absent mindedness or our own imagination. Lights across the moor, and music in the highlands that haunted me all through childhood. No. I never doubted they existed, but you can never make a person believe what they aren’t wont to do.”

Sherlock fought to keep from coughing in the smoke. He could see the man’s look of satisfaction as he saw the effect it was having on him, “And now I have you, and the others of your ilk. Useful at last, and no one to know just how much so. I did ask the girl you know, if she had another cure, but the woman couldn’t string a bit of sense together. So I did it the hard way. I’d offer you the same, but it’s obvious your blood is so strained that you likely don’t know your own talents. What a shame.”

There was a piercing light as the door opened, and then the man was gone.

 

* * *

  

“Fuck.”

John Watson’s curses hadn’t stopped since they found Sherlock strung up in the basement like the girl before him. They hadn’t had time cut into him yet, but he’d been marked with what smelled like some concoction of rosemary oil and other bitter herbs. All around him he was surrounded by a thick haze of smoke. It looked as though he’d been branded with one of the iron poker on his chest; small but it would be work to keep the wound from festering given how deep it had gone.

The detective was just beginning to reawaken, his eyes flickering open as he glanced at the man across from him. His complexion had a death like pallor, and his hair hung limp and damp on his forehead. His eyes were overly bright, and for a long while looked out and unseeing as he murmured things in languages that John was unaware the man could even speak.

John had been unaware of the fist he was making until Lestrade slipped behind him, “We’ve got him John, that’s all that matters, although damn if the Professor isn’t dead”

They’d come in just as the man had been ready to slice Holmes’ open. He dropped the dagger as soon as he saw, reached in to his pocket removing a flask, and took a long drink.

He’d been dead by the time the officers crossed the room to reach him.

Sherlock came to, but was gulping for air and seemed unable to catch his breath. The EMTs were loading him into the hospital, and his heart was still fluttering like that of a hummingbird’s.

“I’m coming,” shouted John, only to find a hand of another man pushing him back.

“No civilians,” he said shaking his head and John fumbled to reach for his card.

“Not a civilian- I’m a doctor. His doctor, dammit you have to-“

“I’ll drive,” said Lestrade placing a hand on the man’s shoulder as the EMT slammed the door in his face.

 

* * *

  

“A fairy.”

John looked up from his untouched cup of tea that he had been staring at.

The hospital waiting room was beginning to kill him. Why Mycroft had yet to get him access to Sherlock’s room he couldn’t understand, but the agony was unforgivable.

Still he looked up at the sound of Lestrade’s voice.

“A goddamn fairy,” there was a quiver on Lestrade’s lips.

The situation was serious, but not life threatening. The whole case had been an absolute mess but in retrospect, “Bloody hell, only _Sherlock_ could attract a serial killer who thought he was a damn fairy.”

He met John’s eyes and the doctor found a laugh bubble to his lips. A moment passed and they were both laughing. John faintly wondered if perhaps he’d gone into shock.

“You’ve never had to _live_ with him. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he sustained on sunshine and tea.”

Except even as Lestrade said it a niggling thought rose in the back of his mind. Odd traits, odd things that Sherlock did on occasion that John had always brushed aside.

“Bah- he’s an odd one I’ll give you that, but a fairy? That one’s a stretch even for him, although I’ll pay you damn good money if you get him to put on a set of wings for this year’s costume party.”

He was still fighting back laughter, “You know though, it would explain a few things though, if the git was stolen by fairies as a child.”

“From the look of things even they couldn’t keep him either.”

The door swung open and the nurse called “John Watson.”

He was on his feet, “Thanks Greg.”

“Wait I’ll-“ except John was across the room and through the door before the Inspector had a thought to follow.

 

* * *

 

 “It is a very _bad_ allergy,” said Mycroft shortly as he sniffed at the tea that had been offered without actually taking a sip. “It’s in his medical records, if you wished to check them, and with the amount of the wood and the smoke in the room it is hardly surprising my brother’s condition worsened into something else. Frankly I have suspicions the pneumonia was his proximity to the other patients suffering, and with his lowered immune system caused him to be susceptible. Be thankful he seems to be making a full recovery, or I should be looking into legal actions concerning the situation.”

His brother’s color had improved little since he was brought in, and his hair still hung shadowed and lank. There had been a fever and then a chill and then another fever as sickness moved into his lungs with a racking cough.

Then there was the brand, festering and infected and even as the wound was cleansed there was little improvement to be found. Whoever the man was had done his research well, and there was little sign that he would improve any time soon.

Mycroft knew the proper procedures, things that might work or at least help, but with John Watson at his brother’s bedside it was an unlikely venture. They were antidotes and cures that would be impossible to pass off as even ‘holistic’ given their improbability in their processes.

Herbs that would count as little more than weeds, oils that most would pass off for aromatherapy, and teas filled with milk and honey that would put most in a diabetic coma. The tea he would try anyway, as soon as his brother awakened, a loose-leaf blend that his mother had kept and Sherlock had been fond of as a child. More of a floral tincture than anything that resembled an actual pot of tea, but beyond Sherlock’s quarrel otherwise, it seemed to do the trick with times such as these.

It would be a trial but he might see about an application of the herbs as well, at least applied to the burn, after all it would hardly _hurt_ the already festering wound- and if it took as it should there might not be a scar.

But, this was not information the doctors needed to be privy to, not without raising questions that he would need to brush over with an unnecessary amount of paperwork.

Dear God, how his brother simply exhumed legwork.

He walked over brushing his brother’s curls, “Fix it,” he told the man still holding a clipboard on the other side of the room. He relished the hint of dismay on the man’s face. “I will bring a few things that he has found a comfort in the past, and we can discuss what we should undertake in his prolonged recovery once he is admitted home.”

Tea first. Perhaps if he was lucky he still had some of the honey left from home.

If not, well, he’d procured far more difficult cures for his unworldly brother.

In the meanwhile, he had three students left to deal with.

 


	4. Act IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.'_
> 
>  
> 
>  Sherlock Holmes  
> -The Copper Beeches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me. The holidays ran away with me as did a bad bout of writer's block, but I've gotten through. Please take note that the tags have changed accordingly and that the chapters have as well. That said chapter five's draft is complete and just needs a rewrite. I debated posting this all as one chapter, but going from 5000 words to nearly 17,000 words seemed rather extreme so I have split it in two. The second will be posted around the 14th.
> 
> Thank you! And thanks to my lovely beta **Eialyne** as always!

“A cottage?”

John Watson’s fingers were making an ungodly noise as they ran across the table. He held a mug of tea tightly with his other hand, oblivious that it was over an hour old and frigid at that point. He was looking at Mycroft with a combination of skepticism and curiosity, although Mycroft supposed he should be thankful the man was listening at all.

“Indeed” he said nodding. “Our parents will be away another six months, at the least, and even then they rarely use the home. We grew up there, and even now it remains sufficiently quiet and removed from most others in the area. I think you would agree that it might be best to give him a month or two away from the city, especially given the current climate we've been suffering through, yes?”

Sweat seemed to glisten on the very pavements of London, as the summer had turned full swing during Sherlock’s extended stay in the hospital. What had begun as temperate slowly drifted into something that was nearing the worst in near memory. Heat rose and shimmered in the sky, and there had been little rain for over a month now. The city was lethargic with no respite to found in her bosom.

And so too Baker Street was drifting towards becoming the equivalent of a Turkish bath. Even the unmovable Mycroft looked like he might sweat out of his normally pristine suits.

“He might not agree to go.”

It was true enough. John Watson would not even know that Sherlock had not been home for nearly a decade, excluding a brief stint during his detox. Very brief given the catastrophe that has emerged during the attempt to seclude him at the time. Although of all the things that perplexed Mycroft concerning his brother's peculiarities, the fact Sherlock proclaimed to ‘loathe the abhorrent country side’ was the most prominent.

Mycroft was not home the year that the inkling of fear had grown in his brother's eye. He had been away at University when he arrived home to discover Sherlock would no longer take his holidays back at the cottage. When he spoke to him concerning the matter, Sherlock clammed up and one would think there were never days where he had sought to make his own nest in trees, or disappear entire nights deep in the forest without their parents any the wiser.

How many days had Mycroft spent searching for his wayward brother in clearings, and never crossing paths only to find him home and reading by the time he clambered back out of the dreadful wood?

And now, murder to so much as mention them.

Which was why Mycroft had no intention of being the one to raise the subject to his brother. “Precisely why I am telling this to you. You had implied that a stint out of the city, with some peace and quiet might assist with my brother’s recovery. I offered up our cottage, one that Sherlock has just as much of a right to ask for as myself, and you said you would inquire with him once he had awoken. He would be far more receptive if it came from you, and I think you can make a strong enough case that my brother would go along with it even knowing my hand was in the matter.”

Whatever distaste his brother had developed for the moor and woods outside their childhood home, Mycroft suspected two days in the countryside and his brother would be near recovered. Being away from the bustle and metal of London would do more for him than any tincture or assistance that Mycroft could manufacture. He was also certain the stagnant city air during the thick wave of heat would only exasperate the situation more than it had.

And John Watson was often a miracle worker where his brother was concerned. If he could coerce a month from Sherlock that would ensure a complete recovery, and provide enough time for most people to forget the incident had ever occurred.

John Watson’s fingers were making the noise again, and Mycroft could see the thoughts tossing through the doctor’s head. So readable- Watson must be aware that even the idiotic sheep that walked the streets could see his every consideration:

'Would there be supplies?'

'Could they get to market?'

'What if Sherlock needed medical care?'

'What was the catch?'

'Neighbours?'

Mycroft cut off the incessant tapping, “The location will be thoroughly stocked, and you shall only be a few kilometers from town. It is secluded, but not entirely distant though little is these days. Flour, sugar, tea and such are all on the premise, but you can pick up anything else on your way in. As for medical supplies, you will find there is a fully stocked supply cabinet that will more than suit your needs.”

The doctor’s pose was almost reminiscent of his brothers, a direct result from their proximity obviously. “I suppose we could both use a bit of a holiday,” Watson amended. “And the catch?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows arched at the thought. “How cynical of you. You truly think so little of me.”

“I’ve seen how you work Mycroft.”

“No ulterior motives. I just wish to see my brother well and back to his annoying self once more. That is the root of the matter I assure you.”

Of course the man still looked skeptical, but the brusque nod implied he would go along with the answer, “I’ll speak with him. As I said, I could use a holiday, and a stocked cottage in Sussex is by far the least expensive option. As long as I am able to keep Sherlock from going mad in the interim.”

“I think Doctor Watson, you shall find he is not as unaccommodating as you so believe.”

* * *

 

“This was a terrible idea,” the voice from the other side of the car was reaching a new height in the tone of whine it was beginning to achieve.

“Sherlock.”

John was going to have to begin using his captain's voice at this rate.

“Horrid. The countryside is a wretched place, filled with superstitious, irrational people who are prone to murder. And above all else?”

John's fists tightened along the driver's wheel. He would not lose his temper, they hadn't even arrived yet.

“Dull.”

The announcement was made with as much aplomb as the detective could muster, and John’s lips twitched in amusement at the man’s absolute resentment that filled the final word.

“Your brother implied this was where you grew up.”

The man leaned against the window, circles still dark rings beneath his eyes and a cough that he couldn't shake. Unnaturally pale, Sherlock's curls seemed darker than they had before the incident, and they framed a face that looked emaciated rather than simply thin. Sherlock had lost weight that he could not afford to give up.

“Wrong. I was little more than a child here. Later, I was sent to Eton for school, and only returned home during the summer. By then? Any charms a child might see in such a forsaken pit had quite worn off.”

Sherlock watched the trees pass by, eyes taking in their surroundings before he turned back to John, “This was a terrible idea. Turn around John, we are going home.”

John felt that he might as well be trapped with a screaming child. He never took his eyes off the road as he gave a short laugh, “Too late. I’ve already bought milk and eggs, and after driving for nearly two hours we are now less than fifteen kilometers from the cottage.”

He could feel the storm emanating from the other man.

“A week Sherlock. If- and only if you are feeling up to it, we can then discuss going back early. Frankly I’m looking forward to a few weeks away. You are not going to ruin this for me.”

The detective fidgeted in his seat like a small child, and looked firmly outside without so much as a glance to John. “How selfish. Here I thought I was the one ill.”

Captain voice it was then.

“Yes Sherlock, I am a selfish. You should know by now just how selfish I can bloody well be. So you can now stop with the fidgeting and pay attention. We’ll be there shortly if these directions your brother gave me are right, and I need you to pay attention since you’ve actually been here before. Git.”

“John I was  _dying_.” He gave a small pathetic cough.

John wondered if it was possible to strangle a man, while driving the rest of the fifteen kilos.

Yet there was a certain sense of gratitude that the cough sounded more of an act of petulance than any resemblance to the one he had suffered at home.

Indeed, there was even a hint of spark in his eyes.

Who would have thought Mycroft Holmes would be right?

Country air.

* * *

 

They knew the moment he stepped foot onto the ground.

Sherlock's head tilted up, glancing towards the sky, before wrapping an arm around himself and hurrying to the cottage as a sudden chill wrapped through the wind.

Of course they knew, how could they not know when one of their own had come home?

It had been a terrible idea.

The winds had changed, and things stirred in the moor.

The east wind, cold and bitter, always recognized her own.

* * *

 

What differences the country wrought upon Sherlock could not be pinpointed, but there were undeniable changes that John only just began to understand.

They were in his movements. His body had always held a type of grace, but now it had seemed to have blossomed since the had arrived. It showed in the tilt of his head, how he dipped it gracefully like a swan's curve to observe something, to read, or even to rest from fatigue.

It was in his posture, as he leaned against the gate like a giant cat lounging in the sun. It held the same type of ready awareness that the detective carried with him I the confines of London, but now his body held an unpredictability that gave no warning.

It was in every aspect of his day to day. When he was at ease sitting in the lawn, or when he was stepping through the hives with his eyes constantly adrift to the trees across the moor.

At times it was like Sherlock was in step to a song only he could hear. A constant dance, that filled his every step and sent the earth spinning on its edge.

To his benefit the man did seem more alive. The full flush of colour had returned to his cheeks, but it was the other changes wrought that John could not explain away.

A wildness that had taken hold, something else he had observed at times prior but more often than not left the hair on John's arm raised and sent a chill down his spine when Sherlock turned his head to look at him.

A nameless feeling that John had no control over.

_'You'll know the Sidhe Johnny. You’ll know it in their gaze, their mannerism- they may wear a mortal guise, but eventually they'll let it slip. Be careful lad, we Watson's have a long memory.”_

_'Gran no one believes in fairies anymore.'_

_'Sidhe. Say what you like but you'll know when the hair on your arm raises up, when you feel the prickle along your spine or see eyes that belong to no mortals. No one may believe Johnny, but that doesn't mean they don't exist any longer. Or why don't you think more people venture into the dark woods? And why do some of the superstitions still hold true? Nay lad, you'll know.'_

Silly fairy stories by his Gran. Silly fairy stories that slipped back into his memory with the ridiculous implications of the last case.

Yet here was Sherlock, playing with the bees and gliding through the gardens like some sort of creature out of a picture book.

His dark curls, his pale skin that took no tan, and wild eyes that still hadn't calmed even as the days passed.

More than anything his Gran's words echoed in his mind.

'You'll know and you'll see.'

Silly fairy stories.

* * *

 

“In the city you forget how many stars there are.” John looked out into the night sky, leaning on the threshold of their open door. Even here it was too warm to close all the windows, and whatever Sherlock said it was much safer than in London.

“You are considering going for an evening walk through the moors,” Sherlock replied drily from the chaise across the room. He had a book on beekeeping half opened on his knee, and had been staring up at the ceiling for the better part of an hour. “Don't.”

John leaned out smelling the night air, “Care to tell me why?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment and his eyes flickered towards the open window obviously debating his response, “Wild dogs. Whole packs of them- roam the whole area. Horrid pests that will go after anything they see. Even with your revolver it's a fifty-fifty chance. Not worth it.”

It would appear the exchange for Sherlock's sudden connection to nature had traded a portion of the man's sensibility.

John laughed.

“Dogs, Sherlock? We haven't heard a single howl since we've been here. For that matter I have been out in the moors during daylight and there isn't a single sign of them.”

Sherlock sat up, “Still dangerous. Poachers, humans, troublesome teens. It's not London where there's streets and noise. No one here to listen to your screams.” The wild look at come back to his eyes, and there was a gleam that reflected the starlight from outside as he looked past John into the open moors.

John turned his head to follow Sherlock's line of sight.

Lights glimmered out upon the field. Dancing, floating, small fireflies that seemed to light the paths leading to the thick wood that still hung ominously as a backdrop, a dark thing that seemed awake and awaiting for the slightest misstep by any trespasser.

When John turned back he saw a tremor go through Sherlock and all interest he had in going out was suddenly vanquished like a drenched candlelight.

“Perhaps not tonight,” he said clearing his throat. The horned moon seemed suddenly to laugh at him and John found himself shutting and locking the door quickly.

Never mind the heat, all at once he wished to shutter the windows and lock the doors.

Turning back, Sherlock's face had gone pale and he was nodding to himself, “Yes. Good.” he murmured looking at his fingers for a moment before making a fist and laying back onto the chaise. “For the best I think.”

* * *

 

Dangerous.

Far too dangerous this close to their home, but the night was crawling by and he needed something to bide the time as he waited for the madness to pass.

He could hear the woods, beckoning, calling, yelling for him to join under their leaves. Never mind the knowledge he was no longer welcome under their branches ,that to step forth could mean a thousand things worse than death, none of those thoughts did little to ease her cries.

Time waxed and waned, minutes slipping by, as his mind fought the ever increasing ennui and want and the thousand voices in the distance that drew him nearer. It has never been so horrid as a child, and growing up he had never had such troubles, but now- after so many years of iron cities and thousands of people milling about in a constant state of confusion that drowned out such subtleties?

After being thrown open by the half-baked attempts of pitiful mortals who knew nothing of what they dealt with? Nothing of the intricacies held within a fae?

With naught but the wind and a faint cry of nocturnal animals at hunt and the merriment of the woods that was just on his periphery?

He grabbed the violin.

It had been half hidden, put away to keep out of sight. Long untouched and out of tune and never to be played again.

At least that had been the idea.

His hand shook, trembling as he drew it to his ear and retrieved the bow. His eyes shut, and a rush flooded through his body like a hit of cocaine.

He rose in his chair and let the music soar. For the first time in months he felt alive as the sound slipped out from the instrument and into the empty air.

It replaced the suffocating of the night, and slipped through the open window and into the moor. Sherlock knew it would act as a declaration; a signal for those who would be best left unawares of his and John's presence in the cottage.

But the addiction was worse than any drug.

He could smell the rosin on the bow, hear the vibrations of the strings, feel the awareness of all those entities that went bump in the night as they stilled under the sound of his violin. It was nothing like the small harmonies he had played with as a child, nor the night he'd allowed himself to spill forth in the flat.

His hands flew, the melody was sharp and piercing, and only slowed after minutes of his playing had sent the world topsy-turvy. Years of melodies that had been held in check, perhaps it was magic or perhaps just the entity that made Sherlock what he was. Whatever creature that might be.

The music dragged him under.

Sherlock was too enraptured to see John slip down the stairs, too caught in his own spell to notice the man wrapped in a dream state before him.

An hour, two? Time stopped as he continued, with his thoughts too torn apart to make any proper sense of what he was playing. It would take another fae to draw him out entirely, take the dawn threatening to break the horizon to make him see what he had not before.

John standing before him, woven into the glamour he had spun, and bathed in the last moonbeams.

The sharp intake of breath and the feel of a mortal before him, blue eyes unseeing as they stared ahead.

His violin took a sharp turn and he threw it down, yet still John remained as he was. Sherlock's heart pounded in his chest, nerves thrown on end as the mortal leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek. Chaste nearly, with a half there smile that spoke of promises and pleasure, and things yet to come.

Another kiss as John slipped a hand along his waist, a brush of noses, a sharing of breath as his hand sought the one with the bow- the instrument dropping from his fingers to intertwine them with callouses made by guns, scalpels, and sand.

Flight, fight or fuck.

Everything flooded through Sherlock as he found himself grabbing at the other man and allowed himself drown in another illicit kiss. This time their lips parting, this time John pillaging his mouth and pulling him tight until they were flush.

Another push that sent them back onto the chaise, John's fingers playing at Sherlock's clothing, unbuttoning, unzipping, tugging and pulling until the seams threatened to rip.

The music still vibrating in the air, the early hours just before the first bird awoke, the silence of broken revelries, and secrets that no one speaks except at the most unholy of moments caught between night and day.

Sherlock, so caught up in the music, the woods, the thick summer air so close to midsummer? Sherlock who was less mortal at that moment than he had been since that moment in the woods so many summers back- since time before memory before he was Sherlock and was something else entirely?

That thing wondered and teased and laughed at the pale mortal who Sherlock had tied so carefully together that he could barely extract what precisely he had done.

Sherlock would have continued, wished to continue as the fingers explored, sought, and soft cries issued from John's plush mouth. The things he could do to him, the things John would do back, the way the man sunk between his knees with just a thought from the detective, with just a glance in John’s direction. John already knowing, and truly wanting to the point of an unquenchable thirst.

Sherlock could unravel him. Sherlock could have him. Sherlock could possess him mind and soul until John worshipped him with every fiber of his being. Time could stop, time could be theirs, time could be rewritten.

John, nuzzling his undone trousers, his hands buried at his waist, his lips already pressing fluttering kisses that grew lower, and lower, and drove Sherlock's mind to a silence.

John who looked up with his face glowing even as his lips opened to engulf the other man.

With dull blue eyes-

Unseeing.

Sherlock pushed.

John stumbled backwards, and the first of the sunlight slipped over the horizon. A song bird hummed outside the window, and the world crashed back into being. The witching hour passed, the spell gone, and the music already a faint memory.

Bile was in Sherlock's mouth, and he could feel his stomach roil with nausea.

John's eyes still blank, still empty, with confusion marring his brow.

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. His hands trembled as he worked to fasten his trousers and looked away, unable to face the other man.

“No.”

“Mmm?” John's voice soft, caught up in a dream that he could not quite see.

“No. Go back to bed.” The man took a step back but the confusion was still there. God what did one say. Distant memories played at the edges of his mind and Sherlock kept his voice calm as he continued, “When you awaken forget this occurred. It was nothing but a dream.”

Fear strummed through his blood.

John head was still tilted in thought, sleep fogged eyes clearing slightly more, but still as docile as a lambs. He nodded placidly and placed a final kiss on Sherlock's cheek before he stood to return to his room. A fair facsimile of what could be under different circumstances. With different people.

Sherlock turned, his eyes landing on the discarded violin. He kicked it away feeling a thrill of pleasure at the sound of splintering wood against the wall.

Not here. Not now.

But with John there?

Perhaps never again.

* * *

 

The circles grew darker and his appetite left.

No amount of yelling, coddling, or threatening would remove him from his bed and the shuttered windows.

The demons had set in, and John may be a doctor but he was not a psychiatrist. He stood by the door unable to do anything until the fit passed.

John’s own sleep was unsettled, filled with dreams and fantasies that he had before but this time shifted into a darker substance. Something watching on the edge.

Something waiting at the door that left his own nerves shattered.

A storm arriving. The same feeling he would have before a firefight in Afghanistan. That moment of air just before the guns began.

When Sherlock emerged, asking for tea three days later, the relief came and went with the night.

The plaguing dreams stayed.

* * *

 

Even without the onset illness, Sherlock's incapacity to handle the most base of chores meant John would be seeking the nearby town for supplies and information by himself.

And perhaps a bit of company. John was pleased to have escaped the madness of London, but three days of silence had begun to wear. He could not be alone with his thoughts in the quiet for so long, and Sherlock had given no inclination of speaking with him.

The sign was well weathered and beaten with the words 'The Pooka' etched into the wood. Beneath there was a picture of a black horse racing through the moor. A proper pub, hopefully with a proper drought, and maybe a decent meal.

The barmaid was pretty enough, albeit half John’s age, but she smiled at him and threw a wink with bright green eyes and flaming red hair to match. The ale was solid, and he found himself surprised to realize how much he’d missed company.

Perhaps there was something to be said about too much country air.

He was halfway through his meal when voices from the table behind him caught up with him.

“Heard the freak's back.”

Freak. The word caused John to turn just a hair's breadth, careful not to look directly at them. It five men ranging in ages, one well over eighty and the youngest near John's own age.

“Ta. The Holmes boy? How'dya know which one? Might've been the elder. Odd bloke I'd say, but nothing like the youngling. Cars come in and out of the place all the time come summer.”

The older man shook his head., “Tisn’t. Ellie said she saw his friend in the store, and the elder-brother had her deliver a bunch of things 'fore they came. Said her youngest saw him out in the garden when he was bicycling out along the way. You can bet she gave him a good scolding to. No good comes about the children hanging about there... ‘specially if the youngling is about.”

The man next to him laughed, tossing an arm around the old man’s shoulders and leaning in, “Oh Fergus, you aren't still on about the young man being one o' them now are you? Odd yes. Touched in the head? No doubt. Probably a poofer too-” the lot made faces even as he patted the arm, “-But even if the brat is a fairy, he ain’t no Folk.”

John went still.

His fist grew tight on his beer and it was all he could do to continue to listen and not turn and pummel the old man where he sat, nevermind manners. What the hell were the men blathering on about? Dear God, if that's how the elders in the town treated Sherlock now who knew what horror his childhood must have been.

“Jack if you'd seen what I had that night,” the man named Fergus had continued on. He took a long swig, downing the last of his beer before leaning forward. His hand went flying down on the table causing the beers to clatter as his eyes narrowed, “Tisn’t natural I tell you. I heard their pipes, I saw them dancing. I'd see him on more than one occasion with the lights in the meadow, and playing like the devil himself laid a hand upon him. You can't be telling me that's a normal thing even for the wee ones. Ask me Rosie, no child acted the way that one did. Hellfire he was, and always with an odd look in his eyes”

Jack leaned over to the youngest with a wink, “And likely a bit too much of drink I’m thinking...”

“And ask Ned if you should! He saw him too! Out talking to people he shouldn't!” he waved his hand over for another man who'd been fetching a round. “Oiy Ned. Tell'um about the changeling boy.”

“Holmes' lad?”

“Aye.”

Ned shuddered.

“Yea I'd seen him. Good riddance when they sent him off to school nae' to return. You remember that last storm 'fore he left? The one that tore old McGregor's barn to shreds and anything else within a stone's throw of the woods? Tis the lad's doing. I saw him come running through the moor, hellfire on his heels as the wind and the trees ripped at him. I might’ve felt bad for the laddie if twasn't for his irritating the Good Folk that left us all in tatters for a good seven years after.”

“Good folk- hah. You're both daft,” the youngest shook his head and downed the last of his pint. “Holmes' lad might be a troublemaker, but if you think there are still fae about you've gone softer than I credited. Mind you I wouldn't be mingling if he shows up in town o'course, but that has nothing to do with magic. More to do with his type, I’ve heard it can be catching. Tain’t respectable two men living together like-”

John slammed down his beer. He'd heard enough. Bloody hell, no wonder the last case had upset him so if he'd grown up listening to that sort of rubbish. Heads turned and he stood, taking calculated steps over to the table and slamming a fist down.

“Let me tell you gentlemen something about your freak.”

The eyes turned to his face, and he could hear the rest of the bar go quiet. At the moment John felt nothing but fury as he made sure he caught the eye of every single one of the men.

“That man is the best and wisest individual I know. He has saved more lives than there are people in your god-forsaken town, and never so much as batted an eye. Here you haven’t even seen him since he was a bloody student in secondary, and all you can do is talk about a stupid myth never mind the bloody fucking crown might not even still exist if it wasn’t due to your poofer.” His fist slammed a second time into the table and the youngest man scurried backwards.

“You don't deserve him, and thank God he detests this place as much as you detest him because like hell I will sit here and listen to slander against the most respectable man I know.”

Years in the military had taught him how to bar any room for argument.

“And who do you think you are?” the man named Fergus rose to his feet.

His eyes flickered over the men. Rough workers, men who were supposed to hold loyalty to their country and understood a fight better than any education, “Captain John Watson M.D, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Bit far from home aren’t you? You the fairy’s partner then?”

John's eyes flickered with anger but he forced himself to breathe, “Someone who is honored to be allowed the title of his friend,”

Jack laughed and leaned over grabbing his pint, “Him? He doesn't have friends that one!”

“Yeah? Well he's got me.”

Another fist in the table and the pints clattered to the floor. He heard the pretty barmaid yell as he turned heel before he decided to turn it into a proper fight. Bit not good, wanting to punch someone old enough to be his Grandad.

The door slammed in his wake, drowning out the ruckus behind him.

* * *

 

“Something is bothering you.”

Holmes' voice cut through the silence.

John’s already shredded nerves turned on end.

A week of not speaking, and now the man felt the need to interfere. Of course.

“Observant. Genius you are,” his fingers flexed from the fist he’d held since leaving town. The milk, nearly gone off by that point as he thrust it into the fridge.

But Sherlock, unless he was in a sulk, never knew when to shut up.

“Locals. Talking about me I suppose. Likely several derogatory comments including at least one about keeping the children away from the house. Multiple reasons, I imagine the primary being questions concerning our relationship but of course there would be other comments pertaining to my-”

John groaned staring up at the ceiling, “Don't want to talk about it Sherlock.”

“If it bothered you I can answer anything that you might-”

John’s hand balled back into a fist, “Really don’t want to talk about it Sherlock.”

“John you know I detest repetition.”

For the second time in the day the door slammed behind John Watson.

* * *

 

Their music, their cavorting, their merriment came too close with the arrival of midsummer.

And John still had not returned.

The revels had grown, and lights danced and lit the path along the garden. In the woods glimmers wove through the trees, and bonfires could be seen off in the distance.

The air hung sticky, warm, and the fragrance of flowers only found nestled deep within the trees caught on the wind.

There was no reason for John, even in such a fuss, to have tarried so long. No reason he should still be out on his walks. No reason the lights should be playing in the garden, baiting mortals with their songs and dances-

Mortals.

He flew up from his respite, his heart pounding.

“John.”

 

 


	5. Act V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock ventures below in search of John and to face the Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much later than I had expected, but May Day seems a rather appropriate time to post the final chapter. It's been an adventure, but it's finally done. Thank you everyone for your lovely support and reading!

_She had him._

He was on his feet, running light and quicker than he had since he'd been a child, and threw himself out onto the path.

He was greeted by the lights the moment he stepped outside. They flickered and danced, drunk on midsummer magic and wanting to play. They danced about his face and he nearly snarled at them to leave until he remembered his task.

“Where is he?!”

They hovered unsteadily, uncertain what to make of this curt greeting, and two gone out entirely at such a brusque comment. The others danced ahead, pausing and then flickering for him to follow on their tails and into the woods.

The moon was full, and the path was well lit as he followed along. The moment the shadow of the trees encompassed him, their branches welcomed him with golden leaves and silver flowers. These sprites remembered him at least, and these still thought of him fondly whatever the court opinion might be.

There had been a time when he would have done anything to stay among the fae. There was simplicity and he imagined in time he might have grown bored. But at least the fae were clever, and there was wit in their responses, and they held intelligence in high regard. His classmates in school had seemed dull and stupid in comparison, their clumsy attempts at flirtation and sex were messy and grotesque. Their humor was at best idiotic and at its worse, cruel.

The fae could be harsher, but there was a subtle chill in their actions. Purpose and reason that could strike the heart and render a man witless. There was a beauty, and a knowledge that even now Sherlock was still capable of that same coldness.

He was not the only one either. How many times had he wonder just how much Tuatha Dé Danann Moriarty was?

Sometimes he wondered if the man had simply been a test. A question of what side had he given himself to, and whether it had been the right one. The final dungeon he’d been left in, tortured and questioned and bled out he’d nearly done it. There had been a moment drenched in his own blood that he knew if he wished he could call up some intangible magic and bring down the pit around their heads.

He hadn’t.

Further he travelled within the confines of the woods, and the silver branches turned black and briars grew thick in their guard. Voices and songs flew around him, lights that bounced off the leaves trying to lead him astray. Glamours wrought for mortals, but then Sherlock had begun to forget what full mortality was like.

It felt like hours, years, by the time he broke through the last of the brambles and poured into the clearing at the heart of the woods.

She was as radiant as she had been so many years before. Hair like the night, skin like snow, and eyes glittering orbs that turned upon him the moment he stood forth.

Her consort barely looked up, his fiery red hair brilliant in the sun, and himself too distracted by his surrounding paramours and merriment to bother with one misguided creature.

“Ah-” her voice caused his spine to turn to iron, his skin to crawl, for every part of him to fall to the ground and beg forgiveness at the hem of her dress that seemed to be spun from the stars. “Well if it isn't our prodigal child, once more returned to the fold.”

The same voice that haunted his dreams, and that he had fled from so many years before.

The voice that had him setting the otherworld to rest, to turn his back on such matters as magic and moonlight that sought his blood, and focus on what shadow offers mortality could place in their stead.

Yet now it was nearly as fearsome as that final night. The moon had slipped from her clouds, yet lightening still danced just beyond the edge of the trees. The wind bent them over and there would be no dancing or feasts tonight. It was court that he had stumbled into.

The Queen stood high and majestic with her consort beside her. The wind gathered round her, and the shadows of the night dancing along her skin. Her eyes were stormy as she settled her gaze on Sherlock who met them full on. She looked younger and older than he remembered her, taller as well, although he no longer felt the fear he had as a gangly teen running from her shadow.

“Hardly” he said.

“Mmm….” Her lips curled, “I have something you want.” She never wavered and her court murmured softly to themselves as they watched. Sherlock’s eyes flickered wondering how many he would recognize among their number. He’d long since learned not to care.

“And I have a warning.”

* * *

 

Even without the addition of glamour, the Seelie Court was beautiful.

Sherlock tried not to marvel, kept his eyes carefully ahead as memories and thoughts tugged at the recesses of his mind. For a moment a door swung open, and he could nearly grasp the strings of another life, another time that was so far removed from the one he lived now that it was hard to imagine it as anything beyond a fantasy.

A dream, something he had once believed in as a child and created his mind palace around. A dwelling of silver halls and white marble pillars made like moonlight. Glowing orbs of light and the music that seemed a constant melody through the strands of life that stepped through the endless halls.

With the glamour it would be easy to see how a mortal may tumble into her halls and never wish to leave.

He padded behind the entourage and was taken to his chambers with a cold silence reminding him he was still unwelcome.

A night and a day. The agreement had been rendered, and in that time he would have to work out the puzzle and contemplate the ways for their freedom.

A night and a day and a challenge to the Queen at the end of it. The contract made by the blessing of his mortal blood and made him anathema no matter how much she wished to add to her menagerie.

Before he had been nothing but a briarthorn, a thistle, a splinter in her shoe that she wished to burn away, but now she found him a rose in bloom and would do all in her power to keep him until she grew bored.

Sherlock knew this better than any mortal. He knew that all roses wither, and a fae's interest passed with a season. Where he might be her favored for a day or perhaps even a century, it would fade with time and he would once more be tossed out with whatever remains of mortality existed.

This time without the comforts he had worked so hard to accomplish in the scrapings of a life he had made for himself.

But a life without John was less than useless. Without John there would be no return. A world made of glamour and fairy-dust would be faceable if it was the only access to John.

The door of his chamber open behind him, and he swerved en guard as it slammed shut to reveal John standing on the threshold.

His clothes had been replaced, and Sherlock felt his throat constrict at the image he cut. Ridiculous in its antiquity, yet with something there. A glimmer, a hint, perhaps a painting from yore. At that moment the man looked like a king of old, donned in golden cloth and white fur at his cuffs. White silk that fell in yards, and tight leather trousers with the same white doeskin. Golden boots. A gem resting on his brow that looked so in place it caused Sherlock to lose track of the age.

John lifted the cornet and tossed it aside, ruining the image and causing Sherlock's lips to break into a smile.

Another faint memory, another mortal, dear god how many centuries had he lived and seen before he'd been changed?

"This is real."

John’s voice cracked as his eyes met Sherlock’s. It was obvious he was waiting for the word, the prank, and the tell-tale signs of a dream or some such nonsense.

At least the glamour had been lifted from John’s mind as promised.

A night and a day.

"I am afraid so."

John huffed and moved to sit on the bed, his gaze torn away from Sherlock to stare about the room in awe, "Sherlock, where are we?"

"Some call it the Mound. Not quite accurate, in so much that it is one of many. Some might say the path to _Tir na Nog_ \- or the seat of the court for _Tir na Nog_. A more accurate description. In summary, it is the seat of the Queen and King of the Fae, and where the Seelie Court has its meets."

John’s eyes drew back to him, and for the first time in years Sherlock wished he had been gifted with the talent of fading.  

"You’re one of them."

Oh where did he begin? How did he explain or go into the details of how he could never, ever be in a place between the two worlds. That magic thrummed through his blood, but mortality quenched it just as quickly?

"Part. Once upon a time you may have called me that. I am afraid now I could tell you little of that time, perhaps more now that I have returned to the mound. Faint recollections have begun to return, but I assure you they are at best strands of cobwebs that I can do little piece into proper thoughts. I always carried mortal blood in my veins, and it was that which had me shifted into a mortal guise. I find, these days, myself to be more mortal than fae, although when it does arise it is rather inopportune."

John’s face was tight in thought, and it was sometime before he spoke again.

"The honey."

"And the tea. Mycroft always had his suspicions, even before I knew or thought myself different. I was not certain until I was well into my teens. It is why he calls me Sherlock rather than William."

There was a look of confusion on John's face before Sherlock realized he didn't know, but then why would he have any reason to.

"My full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I have never been called William-- in part because Mycroft never believed I was."

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes?” John’s laugh rang through the room “Dear god your parents were cruel. What's Mycroft?"

Sherlock grinned, "Worse. I assure you."

There detective had kept a good arm’s-length away, but John patted the spot next to him and Sherlock with some hesitance joined him.

"John, there is little I can do given the circumstances. You drank their mead, which makes the situation… convoluted. I have some thoughts given the Queen wants me, not particularly you. Yet she would hold you a century or more for spite if it came to that. I am working out what I can but...."

John wasn't looking at Sherlock though, his eyes flickered to the lamps and the lights that glowed faint in the room. He observed the silver and gold leaves that seemed to grow from the bed posts, the tapestries that came alive on the walls, with unicorns that ran and maidens combing their hair and laughing, and the moonlight that illuminated the false windows looking to nowhere.

He laughed, shaking his head and leaning back in mirth.

Sherlock froze, startled, worried by the sudden hysterics as tears ran from John's eyes as the laughter grew.

"It's crazy Sherlock. Mad. Fae? The mound? There are wonders here a man would die for, and you’re talking about how we're going to escape. Grimly. As though we are looking death in the face, with a type of agony that you never even reserved for Moriarty. No... No don't look like that," Sherlock had gone pale with fear, "I wouldn't stay. You're right that I have to leave, but you have to admit it's amazing.”

He reached up brushing one of the silver leaves with awe reflecting in his eyes, “A story book tale Sherlock. Something that's... I mean you'd be mad not to want to stay."

"It's not all like this."

"I suppose. And then there’s the whole being dropped out a hundred years later with a beard and being seen as a madman. I'd really rather miss that part if possible."

Sherlock chuckled leaning back, "Yes. That would be rather unfortunate and quite inevitable for a mortal who does stay. Try to refrain from eating or drinking anything else if you can-- there may be a limit given what you did consume was mostly above the hill which will have lessened its power some. Anything here; however, and I am afraid no matter the deal I make it will be near impossible for us to escape."

"Us?"

"Don't be absurd. As though I would leave you here."

They were silent and John plucked at the garment he was wearing.

"Golden cloth?"

"Probably a king or noble they abducted in a past age. It looks human made and time works differently here. Things age better if they age at all." His eyes flickered over John and he looked quickly away once more as he felt his cheeks redden. It was harder to keep his emotions in check Underhill, harder to keep his carefully constructed masks and thoughts from coming to the service.

Passions were the lifeblood of the sidhe after all.

"Sherlock?"

John's brow furrowed and Sherlock stood to busy himself with some of the garments he had been left out as well.

"It's nothing. A night and a day and they've agreed against a glamour on you. We shall make the most of it, while I consider a proper challenge for the court."

“And then?”

“And then we hope I win.”

* * *

 

In this life he had never been Underhill.

Even remembering the small hints he had forgotten (or perhaps no longer knew at all) the infectiousness, the feelings, the life that thrummed through the halls. The songs, the merriment, the laughter and their circles of dance that filled every corner with festivities.

John seemed mesmerized with every detail, and Sherlock found as they wandered that it became easier to explain the things they saw. Twice, he caught himself from joining the fun. Twice, he saw worry in John’s eyes as his own magic begin to grab hold of him.

The third he felt his feet fall in step to the music.

"I remember you!" cried one of the girls dressed in little but an array of flowers that fell as she ran. Sherlock froze mid-step as she approached them from their position in the hall.  

"Ronin you remember him! The Halfling!" the young woman tugged down Sherlock’s jacket and he found himself suddenly unable to move.

The other man (so much younger than he remembered, yet older too) laughed and reached out to run his fingers along Sherlock's cheek.

"Of course I do. My you've grown into a handsome one! It’s hardly a wonder the Queen is so eager to have you." He chuckled, leaning over so his fingers might run along Sherlock’s chest and sending the detective’s pulse through the ceiling, "I wonder if she knows we've had you first. You were such a lovely thing even then."

He looked away even as a rush of longing ran through him, "It was a long time ago."

"Mmm not so long. You must know we don't remember so many paramours as all that." The man’s hand worked along the buttons as Sherlock fought back the urge to push away the laurels upon the other’s chest. "Such silly mortal clothes. Your friend's have been replaced I see. You should come to my chambers and I suspect we could... fix that."

He leaned forward nipping at Sherlock’s neck, the smell of lilacs overwhelming him, and causing a flush of arousal with the flood of memories that it brought.

"I-"

Suddenly he saw, rather than felt, a hand wrapped in gold reach out and pull the other man away. He stepped back as John pushed between them, his eyes flashing with danger.

"I think that's enough don't you?"

"Oh? Why don’t you join us mortal? Elspeth likes to play as well,” there was a giggle from the woman whose flowers had fallen to reveal her ample bosom entirely. “I see no reason we cannot simply make it a quartet if you'd prefer."

"I'd prefer you leave us both alone," John’s voice broached no room for argument. Sherlock felt his own blood run hot at the command in John's voice. He should step up, step in, or do something before it turned sour. Yet he was too flooded with adrenaline and lust to do naught but stand there and watch the scene play out.

"Silly mortals. How dull-- ah well.” He turned to address Sherlock, “If you change your mind lovely, my bower is at the end of the hall. It was quite fun the last time, and I am curious to see how you’ve grown."

"You got me banished," said Sherlock with a sniff, finding himself once more in possession of his own thoughts.

"Oh please. You brought that upon yourself."

The man turned away with Elspeth gliding after him.

As John turned, Sherlock was surprised to see the doctor’s pupils were blown wide, and that during the scene he had become aroused.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

"Yes. I'm fine. We... we knew each other once upon a time."

"Indeed," there was a hint of warning in John's voice, and Sherlock found was still as high as if he'd taken a hit of cocaine.

Too he felt a flurry frustration from his own want to follow the pair and join them.

"Intimately."

Sherlock felt his stomach leap at the way John's fist clenched with the word, "So I gathered."

"I might have wished to join him," he added as an after fact. It wasn’t true, not entirely, but there was a part of him even now that contemplated the bower that still awaited.

John licked his lips and Sherlock nearly turned to leave when John grabbed his wrists. "Don't." He said hoarsely.

The sights, the sounds, the music and the smell of flowers seemed to swallow them both. Sherlock felt as though he wished to grab John and take him right there beneath the silver trees. To strip away the golden cloth, to pass his fingers through his soft locks, to tumble him upon the mossy ground and silver leaves until their cries could be heard to the Queen’s chambers.

To make his claim and assure they knew, even if she kept him, John would never be hers.

Instead, he turned away, and after a heartbeat spoke in a soft murmur.

“As you wish.”

* * *

 

There would be no sleep as the silver leaves shone with moonlight that had his thoughts turning to things he could not quite remember.

Things that hovered just beyond touch. Pictures and pieces of a puzzle that had always been there, but only now fought to make themselves known.

He'd go mad at that rate.

Sherlock pulled on the silken blue dressing gown he'd been given, hardly a comfort over the thin night shirt he suspected was made of cobwebs. (It was not cotton, nor silk, and when he burned portion it smoked like nothing else he had seen in this lifetime.)

The door opened softly as he tied the gown shut.

John stood, a golden robe around his shoulders and a matching night shirt to Sherlock’s. In the light the fabric was nearly see through, and Sherlock felt his cheek’s flush at the outline it made.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think you would be sleeping, and I thought perhaps-"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course wasn't sleeping, indeed my mind was running away with me. You will stay."

He had some thoughts, myths and stories he remembered from Mycroft’s stories, perhaps John could enlighten him on the possibilities they provided.

John wandered through the room, "You'd think we were on the forest floor" he said staring at the lights that glittered through the canopy.

"Mmmm"

That John had yet to sit told him his mind was nearly as active as his own- no doubt dreading that he might once more fell under the glamour. For John it would be nothing short of a nightmare, for a man that despised anything that took away his sense of self, the idea of losing complete control?

Sherlock could not allow it to happen.

John moved across the room, and Sherlock felt himself stiffen. A harp stood, with a lute, a flute and a fair assortment of other instruments. He'd been careful not to step near, although the reason was obvious why he had been gifted the chambers. A minstrel's or a bards once upon a time, he should be flattered as they had been greeted as kin and favored guests, but there was dangers that lurked in such things.

"Would you play for me?" John asked holding up the fiddle with a smile. "It would help calm my nerves in the very least. Especially since the music here only seems to make all this... worse.”

Sherlock froze his eyes flickering over John's face, but there was no maliciousness, no hidden meaning or possible meddling. His eyes were open and honest, and the man was looking at the instrument without a duplicitous thought.

His fingers itched.

Dangerous.

"I shouldn't."

John laughed, "After all this? Sherlock. One song then?"

His mind reeled, and the tunes that came to his mind he pushed away.

"One song" he amended, finding himself on his feet and taking the instrument. John chuckled and lay on the edge of the bed looking at him. The lights caused his hair to shine silver and gold, and there was a glow on his face.

His night shirt felt too thin suddenly.

Insubstantial as spider’s silk.

A distraction.

He whipped up the instrument and fell into a tune, careful to begin with a mortal melody that he let weave whichever which way. It was impossible to keep the wild out of the song, not here, not in the hill. Even mortals songs would take on a new flavor, a richness that never existed surrounded by iron and coal, but for a fae- for one who breathed songs…?

He made the mistake of glancing to John. John whose delight shown on his face, whose anxiety fell from his shoulders, and whose eyes at that moment reflected every inch of what Sherlock wanted in return.

The melody took off.

The music ran away and sped through him, a new tune that combined the mortal minors and keys with the soft sounds and wild notes that the fae favored. Sherlock's bow flew across the strings, winding around them, but he felt a rush of pleasure and thrill upon realizing the magic flowed back into the earth and air.]

He picked it up, let it run, everything he felt slipping into the music, needs, wants, an untold emotion that had been fighting to break free since he arrived, and jealousy that the queen so easily thought to take that which he had carefully held at bay.

When he began to slow, when he came to the end, when the last notes of what had shifted into romanticism and something unnamable came into being, he felt his heart shattered with the strings. His hand trembled as the note hung in the air and Sherlock let the bow fall as he met John’s gaze.

John, now sitting up, eyes wide, pupils blown, as he uttered a curse at the ending.

Sherlock who found himself grabbed, pulled down to the bed, and firm dry lips pressed against his own in response.

The violin fell, clattered and forgotten as he tumbled onto the linens.

John pulling Sherlock's legs to straddle him upon the covers.

"God" he murmured into the detective's skin, moving his lips down, stubble scratching against Sherlock's neck as he let out a low groan.

Sherlock's breath came in soft pants, and for a moment he tried. Tried to ball up the swell of lust and emotion that sang through his body. Tried to push away the lingering notes of magic and passion he had etched into the air. Tried to say it was wrong, that he was little better than the Queen if he allowed this, and he nearly succeeded before he felt John's fingers tear through the delicate night shirt and shattered the wall entirely.

He pushed John back, catching his lips again and opening the other man's mouth to slip his tongue between. He started tentatively, careful to taste John's lips, his tongue, and the inside of his mouth as he pinned him back into the bed. John gave a soft cry when they came up for air, and Sherlock would have none of it.

His shredded nightshirt fluttered around him, and the sound of John’s ripping only urged him forward.

Every inch of the man, he would claim every sodding inch before that witch took him.

He brought his lips to his ear, nipping, running his tongue along the inside and causing John to squirm. He readjusted his hips until he could feel John's arousal aligned with his own, and found himself groaning with the confirmation neither of them had been provided with drawers.

"Fuck," murmured John into Sherlock's chest.

"That's precisely what I intend."

He ran a long stripe along John’s neck, tasting the salt, day old sweat, and a musk distinctly John.

Distinctly human.

So filled with life, so sweet each new flavor wrapped around his taste buds like honey.

His hands slid along John's thighs, holding him in place as the other man bucked slightly at the friction. The remnants of his reel played around them. Each new kiss he placed, each new thrust was another song punctuated by the mortal’s loud cries.  

He let his hands push away John’s shredded nightshirt to explore his ilia bone, his hips, his fingers searching until he felt at last the hard little pebble of a nipple and tugged.

John cried out and he tugged again.

Another cry. Another song echoing through the chamber.

A night and a day.

“Please. Sherlock… my God. Please.”

He lowered his mouth, sucked hard as John bucked against him. There was wetness between their legs, precum already spread against the swollen shaft as he nipped at the harden nipples. When he removed his mouth he dipped below, and took John entirely into his mouth before the man could render his action.

The yell, the fingers slipping into his curls and pulling, the whimpers and cries as he let his mouth savor the flavor was worth it.

“I….I—“

Sherlock pulled off, and he could feel the man shudder beneath him.

“Not yet,” he whispered. He shifted, sitting up and in a swift movement sunk onto the swollen cock.

The indulgence of giving in, and look in John’s eyes and sudden awareness that John, golden John, glorious wonderful John had wanted this too. Wanted this perhaps longer than Sherlock ever had.

_“Good. Good. Your unattached then… like me.”_

The music had enhanced it, the music had risen their blood and entrapped them both, but hadn’t the queen assured it?

_A night and a day._

There was no glamour in John’s eyes.

John thrusted up in ecstasy and Sherlock thrown back as his own pain was shifted into glorious pleasure.

It was nothing like a passing affair with the fae.

Nothing like a quickly taken hit to clear his mind.

The rush caught him, and he clung to the man with a cry of his own. He pushed down, impaling himself again, and again until they both came together and they fell back entangled in each other’s arms.

Sherlock’s cheek’s wet for the first time he could remember.

* * *

 

"A fiddle contest"

Sherlock rolled over from where he lay strewn upon the pillows. He was still exhausted and sore, a second bout having left marks that he planned to wear with pride come morning. He blinked sleepily at the man next to him.

“What?”

"There was a song… Well, I suppose there are multiple songs, where a man plays the fae or a demon or a devil for his soul. I think there was a poem about it too I studied in school. In all the renditions though the man wins.

He threw up a hand waving to their surroundings, “If all this exists, then it must have been done. Sherlock you’re the best hand with an instrument I have ever heard, so challenge her to a fiddling contest. The court decides the better song and whoever wins collects the tithe."

"She's queen of the Fae John. I wouldn't have a chance."

John hummed slightly to himself and ran his hand along Sherlock’s back.

"Wrong. I think it is one area that you might. I'd say you could try to solve a case or a crime, but I think she might find a way around that to play in her favor. Weren’t you saying earlier they are known for their tricks? A puzzle and she might cheat in a way you won’t be able to win.”

He tapped a pattern along Sherlock’s spine, “But I've been listening to their music and it's... odd. It's wild, and yes it might spin you into a dance, but in some ways it’s insubstantial. You forget it as soon as it’s played. Yours has... something else. Maybe it’s because you’re half mortal? There's life in the tune that's missing from theirs."

John was right. The other tests would be selected without his talents, and any challenge she put forward would be made to be exactly where his weaker points would lie.

Music provided a chance. He was good and he knew it and unhindered he might have a better opportunity than he believed.

"I trust you," John dropped a kiss between the detective’s shoulder blades. "And there's folklore about such things. You must have read some of it yourself if even my Gran told me a handful about it. I thought there was a whole tradition of minstrel's who played their way out of faerie courts."

He remembered his playing in the woods, how he could call his companions and send them into their revels with just the sound of his bow. There was truth in what John said and he knew it.

There had always been danger in picking up the bow.

Perhaps he might use it to his benefit.

“What would I play?” he asked the man softly, already thinking through his options.

John chuckled against his skin, covering him in kisses like a blanket, “You’re the consulting detective. Whatever they wish to hear.”

Of course.

So simple.

“Brilliant.”

* * *

 

"Music your Majesty" he said with a low bow, only a hint of mockery as he pushed back the heavy cloak they had bestowed upon him with his change of clothes  The ensemble was ridiculous, with robin blue boots and a matching blue shirt. Tight doe breeches, a silver plated belt, and silver diadem with a fire-bright stone finished of the ensemble.

Ridiculous, yet he knew it helped him cut an impressive figure.

"Music?"

Her eyes flickered over him in distaste, brief but enough to let him know he had chosen well.

From the side he could see John flanked by several of the Queen’s guards, and a smile twist on his lips at the distain reflected on her face.

"The fiddle to be precise. Let it be a contest! It is midsummer is it not? I shall play for our freedom, but should you prove the better fiddler in accordance to the judges than we remain in your courts as your will accords." He was careful to keep his face impassive at the request.

"It seems a rather bias crowd" there were titters of laughter that rang through the crowd.

It had been a possibility, but one without cause to fear.

"They would not risk it. Fair is fair, even to risk your displeasure they would not betray such a vow, especially in the goodwill of the season. And I should think, if it did not provide me a chance, you would not be so keen to talk me out of it.”

He dared to meet her eyes for just a moment.

She burned with anger, and threw out a hand to her attendants.

“My fiddle!"

Her voice, commanding and cold, reverberated throughout the room as the fae flew to their task a flutter.

Sherlock stood in place, his eyes never wavering from her bearing as they waited for the silver instrument to be presented before her. From a distance the soft wood shown like metal, with a bow that matched and glittered. Along its surface vines were carved delicately upon its base, and the strings woven like silver cord.

Once she was given hers, he found another handed to him in turn. He smiled, recognizing the man who settled the instrument into his hands, and winked before he turned over the fiddle with care.

It was not as fine as the one she held, but it was well-crafted and kept carefully. Old, it was made to reach rich harmonies that one too new could not quite bring. He plucked a string, listening to the clear sound that rang throughout the room, and knew the fiddle had its own story to tell concerning its last player. Another note, and Sherlock felt a fleeting suspicion he had met the mortal once upon a time, and suspected as well the instrument was left in goodwill.  

He felt a thrill at the expression of annoyance crossed the Queen's face, but she said nothing and let him tune the instrument to his liking.

John stepped forward, pushing aside the guards that flanked him. Before they could pull him back, he caught Sherlock's wrist, “You’re the best and wisest man I know Sherlock. Whatever happens… don’t forget that.” He brought Sherlock’s fingers to his lips pressing a firm kiss upon their tips.

“John it may be fruitless regardless.”

“Ta. But you’re still better. I mean it Sherlock. Even if they do whatever with me… remember that,” he paused and he rose up to add under his breath. “Also Sherlock? Your brother's wrong. Sentiment isn't weak. You might take a look around.”

He met Sherlock's eyes for a moment longer before the guards pulled him back in restraints.

“Are you quite ready?”

The Queen’s voice held a tinge of annoyance as she stepped into the center of the dais. Her silver and sapphire gown pooled around her like waves of crystal water. Her hair was netted with diamonds that shone with starlight, and she was still she might have been a statue.

“By all means,” said Sherlock sharply. “Let us begin.”

She threw back her head and brought the fiddle to her ear.

John was wrong.

Her song ended and Sherlock felt the same fear clutch him that moment at the pool with Moriarty.

How could he win John back? How could he play when she composed the summer breeze and winter wind? How could he have forgotten that she orchestrated a storm to her call, and the seasons with her voice?

He was neither fae, nor was he mortal, and he hoped to play against that?

“Well then, your turn,” her lips curved upward and she set down the silver fiddle in satisfaction. Where was the purpose? Where was the need when she had already won?

“Sherlock,” he turned, pulled from his thoughts to see John’s eyes meet his. Bright and blue, trusting and completely raptured on Sherlock. “I believe in you.”

Sherlock would not see him enthralled to her.

The bow rose of its own accord, and he blocked the strands that still remained in the air from his mind. Something different then, something new. The first notes the same from the night before, a hint of reprise that led him into something new.

John.

His mind slipped back to the gentle touch, the soft kisses, the passion and fury with which the man had taken him again and again until his kisses were written on his skin.

Sherlock felt the cloak unclasp from around his neck, pooling around him and allowing him to step out from the center. He tilted his head, smiling as he knew the anger that would be dancing on the queen’s face as he allowed his melody to soften, to trap the gentle caress and after fall of the evening.

Allowed every emotion, every want, ever feeling he had ever sought to embrace to slip through- melding together with his magic and his spirit, to slip in and create something rich and true.

A word that Sherlock could never have spoken aloud, but resonated in every note played before the faerie court.

His playing once more sped up, it played with his growing heartbeat, it matched that of John’s whose pulse he could hear in his ear as though they were one person, and not separated by a great chamber. He let it fill the room, let it spin around them and capture the fae in his emotions.

Every moment of their happiness, every moment since the golden mortal had first stepped into his life and taught him what it was to live among man.

What it was to live.

She would not have him.

His hands flew like they never had before. Should he never play again, it would all be for that moment. Once more the tune rose and fell, and when the final note came it was as soft as a child’s first breath-

As whispered as a lover’s kiss just before the tides of sleep-

Lingering like the warmth left by a true-love’s embrace.

There was silence as he lowered the fiddle. He looked nowhere, but at the depths of John’s eyes that met his in pride and awe. How silly when it had only ever been about him?

The guard’s dropped their hold, and stepped back as they looked away from Sherlock.

“No!”

The Queen’s voice rose through the room and she shook with rage, “He will not go!”

The other fae trembled, but they only stepped further back. The decision was unanimous, and there was little cause at who had won. A pale woman spoke, “Your majesty… he-“

“Silence! I will not hear it! Are you so plied by a mortal trick? So won over by a bit of magic woven into music? For what… a mortal? No- he did not play fairly. Guards! Seize-“

“Maeve,”

A voice rose beside her, lilting and soft, “He's won fairly. Let the lad be for he cannot help what he is.”

She shook, her body quivering with the fury in her face, but her fire-bright consort kept a firm hold on her arm as his eyes met hers.

“He drank our mead” she said, her voice tight and petulant like a child.

“So he did, but you made a bargain. So to his freedom has been granted back. As for the Halfling? You lost the child once, and banished him a second time, it is not our way to hold someone against their will when we have promised them fair passage.”

There was fear that flooded through the fae at the queen’s displeasure. The shifted and some had already fled. Only her consort stood firm, bright, and unyielding as he waited for her command.

“Leave. At once.”

His voice rang through clear, and there was little question at to whom it was directed.

John bowed, but this time Sherlock gave nothing but a brusque nod to the king, careful not to meet the Queens gaze, “Come along John.”

John glanced at the tall marble walls, and labyrinth of halls.

“Do you even know how to get out?”

“I shan't have made for an exit if I did not. I was careful to take heed when I enter and it would appear my own sense of preservation is such that it is one of the few things I remember from my time before. I hardly need deduce what that means pertaining to my past welcome at court.”

They walked quickly through the halls. John watched Sherlock stride before him looking more like an elven prince than before. With his tunic of blue and crown of silver leaves, and then the way his eyes shown with a quick-silver light and constantly swirled with blues? Magic filled his steps, and for a heartbeat John wondered if perhaps the man regretted his choice not to stay.

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sherlock scowling. “I'd be bored within a fortnight, and the Queen is more hateful than Mycroft. I will refrain from even commenting on this outrageous guard. I dare say it unlikely we will come out anywhere practical with little hope at not being seen. This may rival that dreadful hat picture you are so exceedingly fond of.”

John laughed.

“Sherlock, these garments may have been worn by King Arthur.”

“Doubtful. Presuming there even was a 'King Arthur' it is more likely a chieftain of one of the Saxon tribes. Or minstrels. I dare say most likely minstrels. It appears minstrels found the need to meddle everywhere.”

Which proceeded to make John laugh harder and cause them both to stop until he could gather his breath. Sherlock simply looked put out, while the other man shook his head leaning against one of the carved pillars.

“God, it's too unbelievable to be real” he said lifting a hand to touch one of the leaves.

“That you’re going home with a changeling?” said Sherlock whose fist was tight in his clothes.

“More like an elven prince,” John raised up on his feet catching his tunic to pull him down in a kiss drawing him back to the pillar. They should be leaving, they should be escaping as fast as they could before the Queen found a loophole, but John’s hands sought the ties and the openings and dragged the man closer.

“John.”

“God the way you played.”

Another kiss, and Sherlock let out a cry as John’s fingers slipped inside the tight breeches to brush his manhood. He thrust into the fingers, already half aroused from the adrenaline earlier. He could feel John hard against him as well, but the man tugged hard on his dark curls and pushed him back until they were half hidden by the leaves.

“I could take you here and now,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear. “Like a tale from the old stories, and the knowledge that… Sherlock….” His hand brushed over the front of Sherlock’s trousers letting go of the ties.

“You have had me. Several times if I remember correctly,” said Sherlock resting his head against John’s neck, brushing kisses along his pulse to remind him he was living and not a faint simulacrum woven by magic.

“Sherlock,” their lips met again and when they came up this time it was Sherlock who caught John’s cheek.

“Let’s go home John.” 

 

* * *

 

 

_There is music that drifts from the flat on Baker Street._

_Music that catches the attention of passers by on occasion, and leaves a warmth wrapped within the chest of those who hear it._

_There is always milk on the sill and doorstep._

_There are always lights that dance outside the windows._

_There is always moonlight even on the blackest of nights._

_Stories of the two men who live upstairs, and how they returned amidst a storm one Midsummer’s night, three years after they had gone missing in the moors._

_Years that showed no decay upon their cheeks, and left a light in their eyes that spoke of things that dance in the shadows._

**Author's Note:**

> As always thank you for the kudos and comments! It has been so lovely writing this, and again thank you for all your kind comments and help! 
> 
> Also for all the faerie playlists via 8track which got this finally completed. I highly recommend Heather Alexander and Heather Dale if you want some lovely songs about the fae.


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